


Sticks And Stones

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Midsomer Musketeers [11]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Investigations, M/M, Murder Mystery, Sexual Content, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28963134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Midsommer Musketeers 11DI Porthos Du Vallon risks losing his job when he’s overhead making an unfortunate remark at the scene of a murder. Even if he can solve the crime it may not be enough to save his skin, when it transpires the ensuing enquiry is to be lead by the notorious hatchet-man Superintendent Richlieu. Meanwhile, the residents of Owlbrook are being harassed by an anonymous letter writer and Athos is determined to get to the bottom of it.
Relationships: Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon
Series: Midsomer Musketeers [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/935982
Comments: 29
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

Humphrey Traherne was bored with Owlbrook. He’d booked into an exclusive boutique hotel for a discreet weekend away with his mistress, who’d been charmed by shots of its olde-worlde houses on Pinterest, but the reality was one corner shop, one pub, one odd shop full of suggestively shaped candles and an estate agent’s that he could only assumed kept going through the sheer number of people desperate to leave. 

He was an MP, which meant he was used to a certain amount of deference, except he was currently booked in under the name Harold Smith so nobody was taking much notice of him. On top of all this his mistress had turned up with a streaming cold and hacking cough, which meant the concept of safe sex suddenly meant the urge to don latex gloves and a face mask. 

His weekend wasn’t destined to improve much. By Monday morning, he was dead.

–

“What do you mean dead?” Anne stared at the wide-eyed young man standing in the kitchen doorway of the Owlbrook Manor Hotel as if his breathless declaration had been in any way ambiguous.

“Dead. As in – dead.” He gestured helplessly. 

“Are you sure?” Part of her not wanting it to be true and at the same time wondering if she should be calling an ambulance rather than debating the matter. 

“Trust me, he’s dead. And how’m I going to get the blood out of my sodding marquee, that’s what I want to know?” he added, as commercial implications began to take over from the initial panic.

“Blood?” Aware she was just parroting things back at him, Anne shook herself. When Tony had burst in and announced he’d found a dead body she’d assumed one of the more elderly guests had suffered a heart-attack, but this sounded far worse. “Show me,” she said firmly. 

He lead her out into the grounds and across the lawn. A marquee had been set up on the far side for a wedding reception the day before, and Tony Allen was there to start taking it down. 

“I’d taken out the tables and stuff,” he explained as they strode across the grass, shuddering slightly at the thought he’d been metres away from a corpse the whole time. Then I went round the back to start taking out the pegs before the guys got here with the bigger van, and – well. I found him, didn’t I?” 

He hung back, clearly unwilling to see it again and Anne went on alone, down the side and around the corner, between the canvas and the trees. She could see a huddled form on the ground and picked her way forward between the guy ropes, suddenly apprehensive of who she might find.

Close up she understood Tony’s certainty. The man was staring skywards with blank dead eyes and a metal spike sticking out the side of his head.

Anne stepped back sharply and almost fell over one of the ropes, a wave of dizziness washing over her. She stumbled back to the front where to her relief Tony was still waiting. 

“Do you know who he is?”

Anne shook her head. “A guest. I think he was only here for the weekend. I’ll have to check. I think he was with someone, I’ll have to find her and – oh.” She stopped and they shared a look, both wondering if the dead man’s companion had done him in.

“Best not talk to her alone, eh?” Tony suggested with a horrified laugh. 

“I have to call the police. Or – no, Porthos. I have to call Porthos. I’ll get more sense that way.” And more discretion, she hoped. Police crawling all over the hotel wouldn’t do her business any good whatsoever. “Have you got any barriers or something in the van? Could you set something up, stop people coming near the tent?”

“I need to take it down,” Tony protested. “I need to have it up again by tomorrow morning, for a do in Foxfield.”

Anne shook her head. “I don’t think it’ll be going anywhere any time soon. I’m sorry.”

–

Porthos arrived in fairly short order with his team in tow, and took immediate charge. To Anne’s relief he didn’t ask her to close the hotel, but warned her that he didn’t want any of the current guests to check out before each one had been spoken to.

“Can you arrange for a room we can use?”

“Yes of course.” Anne hurried off to make arrangements and warn reception, glad she didn’t have to see the body again. Elodie went with her to start establishing as many details about the deceased as possible, and to pacify those guests who wanted to leave.

Porthos studied the scene for a moment. A large white marquee occupied the far half of the wide lawn, a stack of boards that had been used as temporary flooring was piled at the entrance and several sections of hay-bale seating were scattered about on the grass. A crow was perched on one of them, picking out straws.

It was an odd sensation, knowing that his own wedding was due to take place here the following weekend. Telling himself firmly that he didn’t believe in omens, he headed round to the back of the tent, followed by Detective Sergeants D’Artagnan and Marcheaux.

They stood looking down at the body. It was d’Artagnan who broke the silence. 

“Well that’s a relief, when you said he’d been pegged to death I was picturing something quite different.” 

Porthos stifled a snort of laughter and Marcheaux looked confused. “I don’t get it.”

“Never mind. Maybe one day, eh?” d’Artagnan slapped him cheerfully on the shoulder.

“When you’ve quite finished?” Porthos interrupted mildly. “A man has just been murdered.”

“Sorry sir.” D’Artagnan cleared his throat. “Tent peg – odd way to kill someone. Would need a lot of force to get it in, surely.”

“Could be he was already dead,” Porthos pointed out. “Post-mortem’ll make that clear.”

As they made their way back to the hotel a number of patrol cars and the scene of crime van were arriving, somewhat to the consternation of those guests still having breakfast on the terrace.

Leaving d’Artagnan to co-ordinate the crime scene, they went in search of Elodie, finding her in possession of a smart private sitting room at the rear of the house. 

“Right, what do we know?” Porthos asked, pleased to discover that someone had provided a tray of coffee as well. 

“Name was Harold Smith, at least according to the register,” Elodie reported. “Just here for the weekend with his wife, although they weren’t part of the wedding party.” 

“Mr and Mrs Smith?” Marcheaux said derisively. “Yeah, right. That’s got bells on.”

“Where’s the wife now?” Porthos asked. “Has she been told?”

“That’s the thing,” said Elodie significantly. “Apparently she already left, either last night or early this morning.”

Marcheaux rubbed his hands together. “Excellent, I like the easy ones. Wrapped up by lunchtime you reckon?” 

“Let’s give it at least the pretence of due process shall we?” Porthos asked sarcastically. “We don’t know exactly when she left?”

Elodie shook her head. Not precisely. Anne’s fairly sure she remembers seeing her at dinner, but not at breakfast.” 

“She remember all her guests does she?” Marcheaux asked sceptically. “Big place, this.”

“She remembered this one because apparently she had a bad cold. Kept coughing, and Anne was conscious of the other guests giving her filthy looks. Was going to ask if they’d like to move to a private dining space, so was looking out for her this morning, which is how she knows she never came down to breakfast. Also there weren’t many guests who weren’t part of the wedding party.”

“And she’s definitely gone?” Porthos asked, suddenly wondering if there was a possibility of finding a second body somewhere.

“Anne went to knock on their door when she realised who the bloke was. When there was no answer she got the pass key and went in, in case anything was wrong. Says Mr Smith’s stuff was still there, but it looked like his wife had cleared out.” 

Marcheaux threw his head back and stared bleakly at the ceiling. “I hate this village. Everyone thinks they’re a fucking detective and tramples through the evidence like a herd of rabid Miss Marples.”

“I hardly think a basic check on the wellbeing of a guest constitutes trampling,” Porthos protested. 

“No offence sir, but should you even be on this case? Owners are friends of yours, aren’t they?”

Porthos stared at him coldly. “Anne and Aramis are friends, yes. I don’t recall anyone suggesting either of them might be involved in this death?”

“Not the first corpse to turn up here though, is it?” Marcheaux asked cheerfully. “You couldn’t pay me to stay here.”

“Fortunately nobody wants to,” Porthos snapped. “Now do you think you could get off your arse and find out Mr Smith’s address, before the possibly less than grieving widow leaves the country?”

Marcheaux went out, muttering something rude about due process and where you could stick it. Porthos sighed, and turned to Elodie. “On the off chance it’s not as bleeding obvious as it looks, who else is in the running?”

Elodie consulted the list she’d made. “Twenty two guests at the hotel last night, not counting the deceased or his wife. Twelve of those were part of the wedding that took place here yesterday, friends and family of both sides, but not counting the happy couple. They had the last available room booked out for both nights so they could use it during the day but left yesterday after the reception to go on honeymoon. I guess they’re in the clear.”

“Depends what time he died,” Porthos said. “No, hang on, he was was seen at dinner wasn’t he? Had they gone by then?”

“Yes, by several hours.”

“Alright, who else?”

“Eight other hotel guests, one group of four and two couples. Other than that, there’s the rest of the wedding guests who weren’t staying overnight, the Herblay family themselves plus the little boy’s nanny, and then the hotel staff – and apparently there were several temporary staff as well over the weekend, because the hotel was full and there’s a lot of extra work for a wedding.”

Porthos groaned. “I’m starting to favour Marcheaux’s open and shut case. How many of the guests want to leave today?”

“The whole wedding party, pretty much.”

“Alright. Start taking contact details, and establish if any of them saw or heard anything. Once we’ve confirmed Mr Smith’s identity I don’t see why they can’t leave, as he wasn’t one of them. What about the rest? Was Smith seen talking to anyone in particular?”

“Not that Anne noticed,” Elodie reported. “Said they kept very much to themselves. And that he looked pretty fed up, too.”

“Could be they were arguing,” Porthos mused. “Still, it’s got to be looked at properly. You’ve done well, but check with the rest of the staff as well, in case any of them saw him speaking to anyone in particular.” 

“Just interview the whole village while I’m at it shall I?” Elodie muttered under her breath, then was mortified when Porthos turned round at the door, clearly having heard her.

“No, that’ll only be necessary if we draw a blank with the hotel,” he said brightly, and headed for reception thinking that she was clearly spending too much time with Marcheaux if his bad habits were rubbing off on her. 

–

“We’ve hit a snag sir,” Marcheaux reported some time later, not looking particularly upset about it. In fact Porthos thought he looked quite entertained. “In that he doesn’t exist.”

“You what?”

“Harold Smith. No such person, or at least no such address that matches the one in the register. We could start canvassing every Harold Smith in the phone book, but - ”

“Yeah, probably a fake name too then,” Porthos agreed, hoping it didn’t come to that. At least the man hadn’t picked John, but if they couldn’t track down his identity some other way some poor support worker would probably have to start doing exactly that.

“Fingerprints?” Marcheaux suggested. “Dental records?” 

Porthos shook his head. “Let’s start less complicated. Assuming he didn’t pay in cash they should have a record of the card used to make the booking.”

They tracked down Anne who asked the receptionist to look up the information they needed. 

“It was booked to the credit card of a Humphrey Traherne.”

“Why’s that name familiar?” Porthos wondered. 

Marcheaux looked it up on his phone and snorted. “Oh, that’s our corpse alright. Fuck me, he’s a politician. MP for Wellchester.”

“No great loss then,” Porthos murmured, and Marcheaux grinned. 

“Can I quote you on that, Detective Inspector?” came a voice from behind them. Porthos looked round to find a man holding out a phone towards them, apparently recording them.

“Who the fuck are you?” Marcheaux demanded, echoing Porthos’ thoughts exactly. 

“Des Tranter, Sussex Argus. Is that the official view of the West Sussex police, or your personal opinion Inspector? That the deceased is no loss to society?” 

As Porthos stared at him, too frozen to think of a response, Marcheaux made a lunge for the man’s phone. “Give me that!”

Tranter dodged back out of the way and Porthos finally remembered how to breathe. “Don’t.”

“That’s right sonny, you listen to your boss,” Tranter smirked. “Don’t want to be adding assault to the list of charges, do we?”

“What fucking charges?” Marcheaux snarled. 

In answer Tranter fiddled with his phone and held it up. Marchaeux and Porthos’ exchange could be heard quite distinctly. 

_...he’s a politician. MP for Wellchester.  
No great loss then._

“That’s not – ” Porthos tailed off. He’d said it, after all. You couldn’t even argue it was out of context. Protesting that he hadn’t meant it was futile. 

“Anything further to add, gentlemen?”

“No comment,” Porthos said numbly. Tranter gave him an unpleasant smile and walked off.

“Say the word sir, I’ll get it off him,” Marcheaux muttered, clearly seething. 

“On what justification?”

“Taping a private police discussion during a murder enquiry? Got to be grounds for confiscation.”

“He didn’t catch anything relevant to the case.”

“Yeah, nobody knows that apart from him though,” Marcheaux pointed out. “His word against ours right?”

Porthos stared down the corridor after Tranter. It was horribly tempting, but also carried the risk of hugely compounding the shit he was in.

“No.” He shook his head reluctantly. “We don’t have grounds.”

Marcheaux shrugged. “Your funeral.”

Porthos swallowed. He felt sick, and could only imagine the scale of the shitstorm that was about to come his way.

“I need to tell someone,” he said finally. “Warn upstairs what might be coming.” He turned back towards the desk, where Anne and the receptionist were watching proceedings with an unsettled concern, having been too far away to have heard all of the conversation but able to see something was wrong.

“Who let him in here?” Porthos asked, thinking indignantly that he’d asked D’Artagnan to set up a cordon outside.

“He’s a guest,” Anne said. “He was here for the wedding.”

Porthos groaned. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch.”

“Oi, sir,” Marcheaux called after him. “Who’s in charge while you’re gone?” 

Porthos hesitated. He normally nominated d’Artagnan in his absence, but Marcheaux was the same rank and he knew it pissed him off. And Marcheaux was the only witness to the earlier exchange. He needed every friend he could get right now. 

“Fine,” he sighed. “You.”

“Yes!” Marcheaux gave an unseemly fist pump and Porthos winced. 

“By the book, sergeant,” he called. 

Already walking away, Marcheaux flapped him an ironic salute and Porthos wondered heavily if he’d made a mistake. Oh well, they could only fire him for one thing at a time. 

–

“What’s going on?” D’Artagnan entered the private sitting room they’d been assigned as an office to find Marcheaux and Elodie deep in animated conversation. “Porthos just walked past me with a face like thunder, I swear he didn’t even see me. What’s happened?”

Marcheaux gave him an unnerving grin. “Well first of all, the good news is I’m in charge in his absence. Which means you get to go and break the news to the widow.”

“We’ve found her then?”

“Well, we know who she is now,” said Elodie. “Because we know who _he_ is now.”

“Anybody want to share, or am I supposed to guess?” 

“Humphrey Traherne. MP for Wellchester.”

D’Artagnan whistled. “Shacked up for the weekend under a false name?” he guessed. “So presumably the lady he was with isn’t the wife? Meaning we still don’t know who she was?”

“Pretty much.” Marcheaux dropped into an armchair and lifted the coffee pot to see if there was any left. “Do you reckon we could get a refill?”

“Glad to see you’re taking your responsibilities seriously,” said d’Artagnan sarcastically. “How come you’re in charge anyway, where’s Porthos gone?”

“Ah, well. Therein lies a tale. Turns out the gutter press live among us.”

–

When Athos arrived home from work that evening he was startled to find a group of people gathered around his front door. He approached cautiously, wondering what was going on. 

“Can I help you?” he asked in the most discouraging tone possible. 

“Inspector Du Vallon?”

As the pack turned hopefully towards him with a synchronised reaching for various recording devices he realised they were reporters. 

“No it isn’t,” a woman with short hair dyed an alarming shade of red interrupted before he could correct them. “Du Vallon’s black.”

“What’s going on?” Athos asked.

“Who are you?” asked one of the others.

“Athos de la Fère. Who are you?”

“You’re a lawyer aren’t you?” the same woman as before said accusingly. “Janice Danvers, South Coast Press. You were on the telly when that Mathers was arrested. Are you representing Inspector Du Vallon?”

Athos was now considerably confused and increasingly worried. Was Porthos in trouble? He considered dissembling but they could find out the truth easily enough and Porthos was openly if quietly out at work so it couldn’t hurt. Lying or avoiding the question might look worse in retrospect.

“No, I live here. I’m his partner.”

“Can you comment on the events of this morning?” 

“No,” said Athos shortly, wondering with increasing alarm what had happened. “No comment at all. Other than to say this is private property and you will please leave immediately. In fact if you're not out of my garden in thirty seconds, I'll have you arrested for trespass." He looked pointedly at his watch, and when nobody moved he took out his phone and started dialling. This had the desired effect and they shuffled back beyond the line of the gate. "Thank you." 

Athos ducked inside and closed the door firmly. Heading for the kitchen he tried to call Porthos but after ringing a couple of times it went through to answerphone. Assuming that whatever was going on it meant Porthos was too busy to pick up, he sent him a text instead then went to see if the local news could offer a clue.

–

Porthos felt his phone vibrate and cast his eyes down at the message that had appeared on the screen. A text from Athos. _Fair warning, reporters on the doorstep. Park next door and come round the back. It’ll confuse them._

His heart sank. He wondered what Athos had heard, and wished he'd been able to speak to him first. The day was going from bad to worse, and showed no signs of improving any time soon. He dragged his attention back to the emergency meeting he was in, and tried to concentrate. 

–

It was almost nine thirty in the evening before Porthos finally made it home, worn out and demoralised. He'd held out hope that any lurking reporters would have given up by now, but there were three of them in the lane outside, looking up as his car approached. 

As Athos had suggested he pulled into the wrong drive, his headlights illuminating the crowd clustered around the garden next door. They flocked towards him but he had his key ready and slipped into the empty house, ignoring the shouted questions. 

He stood for a moment in the dark hallway. It was a new front door he’d come through, the old one having been smashed in by a falling tree. The house smelt both familiar and strange, having been unlived-in for months. Someone banged on the door behind him and he jumped, swearing under his breath. Made his way down the darkened hall and let himself out of the back door.

Porthos climbed the low fence at the bottom of the garden and turned left, letting himself in through the gate one house along and tapping quietly on the back door.

Athos opened it immediately, having been anxiously listening out for him.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, helping Porthos off with his coat. 

“You haven’t heard?” Porthos knew for a fact something had certainly been on the local news and guessed the reporters outside had probably had a lot to say.

“I want you to tell me what actually happened,” Athos said. When Porthos didn’t speak, Athos supplied the background.

“I heard someone was killed up at the Manor? An MP. Murdered with a tent peg.”

“They said that on the news?” Porthos asked, briefly startled out of his funk by the thought they’d released such sensitive information as cause of death. He’d had no chance to catch up with his own team, and had no idea what progress they might have made.

“No, I got that from Aramis,” Athos admitted, handing him a glass of wine. “Porthos what happened? Talk to me. It sounds like something blown out of all proportion. From what I gathered you're being accused of saying something derogatory about the victim?"

“We didn’t know who he was at first – he’d booked in under a false name. Presumably because the lady he was staying with doesn’t appear to have been his wife. I was in reception with Marcheaux when we got his identity from the card he paid with.” 

Porthos pinched the bridge of his nose with tired regret. “You ever say something really stupid, that you don’t even really believe, but somehow you want to make someone who you don’t even like laugh?” He groaned. “When we found out he was a politician I said something like ‘no great loss then’. Which shouldn’t have mattered, except it turned out a member of her Majesty’s gutter press was also in reception and got me on tape.”

“Oh Porthos. Cue political shitstorm, presumably?”

“I’m fucked.”

Athos shook his head. “It’ll blow over. You issue a grovelling apology and next week everybody’s got something else to think about.”

"You don't know what it's been like." Porthos stared at him unhappily. "I've been carpeted all afternoon, there's going to be an enquiry. I’ll probably be suspended and I could lose my career over it."

Athos frowned. "I'm sure it won't come to that."

Porthos shook his head heavily. “It might do. It really might.” 

Athos stepped forwards and took the glass out of Porthos shaking hands, and pulled him into his arms.

"It'll be alright," he said soothingly. "You haven't actually done anything wrong, other than get caught out in an unguarded moment, it was an off the record comment. They can't fire you for that."

“You’re the hotshot lawyer. Could you get me fired for what I said?”

Athos was silent for a moment, considering. “Yes,” he admitted finally. “I probably could.” Athos stroked a comforting hand down his arm. “But as I’m not the one pursuing this, chances are you’ll be fine.”

Porthos managed a faint smile. 

“Do you need me?” Athos asked seriously. “In a professional capacity, I mean? 

Porthos shrugged. “I’m not actually being sued, it’s just an internal enquiry.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t take legal advice. Use what’s at your disposal.” 

“I’m scared,” Porthos admitted. “I’ve worked my whole life towards this job, and now I might lose it all.”

“The press’ll lose interest in a day or so, soon as something juicier comes up."

"They might, but the Force won't," said Porthos grimly. "They can't, not now an official complaint's been made."

"By the press?" Athos asked, surprised.

"No. By the mother of the deceased."

"Oh shit." Athos winced.

"She wants my hide." Porthos downed the rest of his drink. "And she might just get it."

“It’s not in their own interests to get rid of you surely?”

“They may decide to make an example of me. They could demote me," Porthos said miserably. "Or just transfer me. What if they send me away, somewhere in the arse end of the country?" He looked up in a panic, and Athos shook his head.

"They won't," he said calmly. “And if they do, then we go wherever you're sent. It's not the end of the world."

"But - "

"There's no point in fretting ahead of the facts," Athos told him firmly. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.” 

"I'm sorry I couldn't speak to you before," Porthos said contritely. "It's been mad this afternoon. Thanks for the heads up about that lot outside." He sighed. "I'm sorry you had to contend with them and all. This is just one big mess."

“It’ll be okay. Whatever happens, it’ll be okay.”

“What if they do fire me?”

“Then we’ll – I don’t know. Move to France. Buy a ruined château. Raise goats.”

Porthos gave him a grateful smile. “Not a great omen is it? Finding a dead body right where we’re about to get married.”

“Would you rather have it somewhere else?” Athos offered. 

“No. Unless you would?” 

Athos shook his head. “Let’s face it, if we’d been able to get married in church we’d’ve been surrounded by dead bodies. Under the floor, all round the building...”

Porthos made a face. “I’d never thought of it like that. Thanks a bunch.” He hesitated. “Were you going to have a church wedding? Before, I mean?” Meaning when Athos had been engaged to his previous fiancee, who he never talked about and Porthos never quite knew whether it was okay to bring her up as a subject.

“No. It would have been a registry office. Neither of us wanted much of a fuss.”

Porthos nodded, slightly relieved. He worried sometimes that Athos had lead such a very different life before coming to Owlbrook that sleepy village life wouldn’t be enough for him, although he had to admit it had turned out to be quite an eventful couple of years. 

–

After picking listlessly at the supper Athos insisted he at least try to eat, Porthos went straight to bed but despite the fact he was exhausted sleep refused to come.

“You okay?” Athos murmured, after nearly an hour of Porthos tossing and turning and sighing heavily beside him.

Can’t sleep,” Porthos admitted with a sigh. “Head’s just going round and round.”

“Want me to take your mind off it?” Athos offered, snuggling closer and nuzzling his shoulder.

Porthos gave a dismal laugh. “To be honest I’m not sure I could even get it up right now.” 

“Hmmn.” Athos shifted a little, pushing up the sleeve of Porthos’ t-shirt and pressing a kiss to his bicep. He moved up to kiss his neck, following this with a flicker of tongue and another kiss, then another light swipe of tongue below his ear. Porthos gave a rumble of approval and Athos continued in this vein for a while, alternating kisses and tiny flicks of his tongue until Porthos gave a breathy laugh of bemused surrender.

“How the fuck do you do that?”

“Do what?” Athos murmured innocently. 

In answer, Porthos groped for his hand and dragged it round in front of him until Athos’ fingers encountered the substantial erection now sticking out of Porthos’ boxers. 

“Oh,” Athos smiled, curling his fingers around Porthos’ cock and squeezing gently. “That.” 

He wriggled further down in the bed as Porthos rolled onto his back, rigid with anticipation as Athos moved down to take him into his mouth.

“Christ.” Porthos closed his eyes, breathing heavily as Athos sucked down on him, twisting his hand into the bedclothes as he resisted the urge to tangle it into Athos’ hair, knowing he didn’t like having it pulled.

The combination of unrelenting mouth and fingers meant it wasn’t long before Porthos was groaning out his climax, spilling his load into Athos’ mouth before flopping back against the pillows, panting.

“Fuck.”

Athos sat up, wiping his lips and fumbling under the pillow for a tissue. “Better?”

“Fuck.”

Athos gave a quiet laugh, settling down again beside him. “That should send you to sleep if nothing else does.”

Porthos gave a contended hum, then yawned. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Athos slipped an arm round him and kissed him goodnight. 

–

“Good luck. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Athos followed Porthos to the door the next morning. “I’ll see you this evening.”

Porthos had to report to the divisional headquarters first thing to learn his fate, and was currently looking as smart as if he was heading for a job interview. He supposed in a way he was, and his heart sank.

“Yeah, well I might be back by lunch time if they suspend me,” Porthos said gloomily. 

Athos rubbed his arm sympathetically. “Call me if you need me to come home, yeah? I’m only down the road.” 

“Yeah. See you later.” Porthos kissed him distractedly on the cheek and got in the car.

Half an hour later he was sitting outside the headquarters building apprehensively trying to work up the nerve to go in. Cursing himself for being cowardly he finally got out of the car with a convulsive burst of energy and strode into reception. 

His immediate boss was the divisional commander, Chief Inspector Thom Burroughs, and Porthos wasn’t sure if it was good news or not that he was directed to his office. If he’d been going to face a panel like yesterday it would have been one of the conference rooms. On the other hand if it was suspension the man might have been planning to get it over and done with before his first coffee.

Porthos had been too antsy to eat any breakfast, and his stomach rumbled embarrassingly as he walked up the corridor, giving him one more thing to worry about. 

“Ah, Porthos, come in.” Burroughs waved him to a seat and Porthos allowed himself a cautious glimmer of hope. The man wasn’t sporting the approved grave face of doom, which would have certainly presaged bad news.

Burroughs regarded him over steepled fingers for a pensive moment, and Porthos had to suppress the sudden inappropriate urge to laugh. Get on with it, he wanted to shout. Get it over with.

“You’re not being suspended,” Burroughs said finally, and Porthos breathed a sigh of relief. “Although I should make you aware that more than one member of the panel yesterday was in favour of it. But given the recent cutbacks, frankly we’re too short-staffed at the moment to let you sit at at home on your arse for a month. However, an internal enquiry will be progressing, and you’ll be temporarily relieved of your rank for the duration.”

“Who’s taking over?” Porthos asked. “DS D’Artagnan would be my recommendation. He’s acted up before.”

“No, this is considered too sensitive to be dealt with by your own team, it will be handled from above. Someone is already in place this morning, and he will also be handing the enquiry. You will give him everything he needs, is that understood?”

Porthos looked up in shock. He’d been braced for the idea he would be closely audited and was confident his work would stand on its own merits, but the thought of reporting in to the very person scrutinising his every word and decision made him uncomfortable. 

“Yes sir,” he said, unable to say anything else in the circumstances. “Can I ask who it is?”

–


	2. Chapter 2

“My name is Superintendent Richlieu. I normally work out of a surprisingly nice building in Lewes, so you can imagine I am not entirely thrilled to be spending the foreseeable future in this sixties concrete monstrosity.” 

Taken aback at this rather unconventional introduction, the CID team watched in silence as the man addressed the room. He’d walked in earlier and marched into Porthos’ office like he owned the place, which as it turned out, he apparently did. 

“You will no doubt be aware by now that DI Du Vallon is under investigation for yesterday’s little moment of spectacular idiocy. For the avoidance of doubt, you all now report directly to me until the enquiry is concluded. I will be interviewing all of you in due course, but in the meantime it’s business as usual. And I’m sure I don’t need to emphasise this, but the press will be sniffing around this case like flies on shit, and nobody here is to give them a single word of copy, on or off the record is that understood? We have a communications team for a reason.”

D’Artagnan tentatively raised his hand and Richlieu glared at him.

“We’re not in fucking primary school man, what is it?”

“Will Inspector Du Vallon be coming back sir, or...?”

Richelieu sniffed. “Yes, I’m told he will. At a temporary rank of detective sergeant, pending outcome of the review.”

This caused a stir, which Richelieu ignored. “I’m sure you all have things to be doing. A man’s been murdered, that should be your priority right now. So prioritise. Oh, and one more thing – ”

He was interrupted by the door opening to admit Porthos, who stopped in his tracks when he found the entire room looking at him.

“Ah, Du Vallon, good of you to join us,” drawled Richlieu, pointedly looking at his watch despite knowing full well Porthos had been called to headquarters. “I was about to say, all leave is cancelled until this murder is solved. The higher-ups are understandably a little twitchy about it, and want a speedy resolution.” 

“Oh, but – I – ” Porthos stared at him, as cold realisation dawned. 

“You have a problem with that?” 

"I had a week booked off actually sir," Porthos said awkwardly. 

Richlieu stared at him incredulously. "Hardly the time to be worrying about a holiday I'd have thought, when your career is on the line?" 

"It's not exactly a holiday sir. I'm, er – well, I'm getting married."

"Married?" Richelieu looked mildly revolted by the concept. "Understanding woman I hope, your fiancee?"

"Very," agreed Porthos, then made himself add - "and it's a man, actually sir."

"A man?" Richelieu echoed, in a tone that suggested Porthos had said he was marrying a horse, but there was just enough lack of surprise there that Porthos suddenly wondered if he'd known anyway. It was probably on his file because Athos was his emergency contact, and Richelieu would certainly have seen it before coming here. Which meant he was being manipulated, and he swallowed down his anger.

"Yes sir. He's a solicitor."

"Really? Must come in handy." 

Porthos refused to ask what he was implying. It was easier not to rise to the bait when he knew he was being deliberately riled, but the man's next comment nearly made him snap.

"Well given it’s another man I'm sure you can postpone it without prompting too many hysterics."

"You can't make him do that sir!" Elodie burst out. "That's discrimination!"

Richelieu gave no sign he'd heard her, and despite Porthos' warning glare she marched round into his line of sight.

"Are you ignoring me because I'm a woman?"

Richlieu turned his head slowly towards her. "No, Detective Constable. I'm ignoring you because you're a Detective Constable. And I eat those for breakfast."

There was a moment of silence as everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath.

"Well then I hope you choke." Elodie turned and walked stiffly out of the door, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on her.

Porthos wrenched his gaze back to Richlieu and found the man staring at him.

"One of your personal recruits to CID, I believe, Inspector."

"Yes sir," Porthos managed. 

"Still standing by our choices, are we?"

Porthos swallowed, and straightened his back. "Yes sir," he repeated woodenly.

Richlieu eyed him with what might have been a glimmer of amusement. "Good," he said briskly, and Porthos blinked in surprise. Richlieu gave him a thin smile. "Sometimes it feels like the only officers left on the force with any balls these days are the women." He stalked into Porthos' office and firmly closed the door. 

Everyone exchanged a look, feeling they'd had a stay of execution. "Go and find her," Porthos said to Marcheaux. "We're going to need all hands on deck." Marcheaux got up and headed for the door, pausing as Porthos called sharply after him.

"Marcheaux! Do not make her think she's been fired."

Marcheaux grinned. "Never crossed my mind for a second sir."

He found Elodie in the smokers' corner of the car park, slumped on the low wall and halfway through a cigarette. He sat down next to her and she gave him a sideways look.

"Don't tell me. Back to uniform?" she guessed dismally. 

"Worse than that I'm afraid."

She looked up in alarm and he winked at her. "Back to work. I quote: all hands on deck."

Elodie let out a shaky sigh of relief, and he pinched the cigarette from her, taking a drag. "You want to be careful, I think he liked you."

"Yeah, well there's no accounting for taste, is there?" she jibed, taking her cigarette back. They exchanged a brief smile, then hauled themselves up and went back into the building.

–

At lunchtime, having heard nothing from Porthos and assuming that no news was provisionally good news, having first checked there was no sign of Porthos at home Athos went to seek out Aramis in the hope of gleaning more details regarding what was happening at the Manor. He’d called him the previous afternoon as soon as he found out from the news there’d been a suspicious death at the hotel, but at the time Aramis had been over at the church in Mayfield and could only tell him what he’d heard from Anne. Athos was hoping by now he’d know more.

He found him at the vicarage, and was immediately offered a cup of tea.

“Are you alright?” Athos asked, thinking he looked pale. It belatedly occurred to him that Aramis might be taking this badly. He’d been through a rough time not that long ago, and a death on the premises could well have shaken him. 

“Yes, fine,” Aramis said distractedly. “How’s Porthos?”

“Worried,” Athos told him. “He doesn’t know yet what’s going to happen, and he’s imagining the worst. It could be a slap on the wrist, it could be a full blown forensic audit. I guess we’ll know more by tonight. How’s things at the manor?”

“Well they finally let the guests go,” Aramis sighed. “Although half the people who were supposed to check in today cancelled, and since the piece in the paper this morning we’ve had more cancellations.”

“I haven’t seen it?”

Aramis hunted about on his desk and passed it over. A glance at the byline suggested Janice Danvers had done her homework, and while details of the new death were necessarily sparse, she’d dug up the story of the previous deaths connected the Manor, and also that of the original owner Feron. Athos was startled to see his own name mentioned in connection with that one, not to mention his current relationship to Porthos.

“Jesus.” Athos glanced guiltily at Aramis. “Sorry, I mean, er - ”

Aramis laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I suspect He likes his name to be kept in circulation. Talking of which, I see you get a name-check.”

“Unfortunately. I hope this won’t mean more reporters on the doorstep.”

“The price of fame.” Aramis gave him a vague smile. 

“Is anything wrong?” Athos asked. “Apart from the whole murder enquiry thing, I mean.”

Aramis hesitated. “Not sure I should bother you if you’ve got all this other stuff to worry about.”

“Don’t be silly. At this point somebody else’s problems’ll make a nice change, anyway.”

“Someone’s made a complaint about me.”

Athos blinked. “About you? What have you done that anyone could take offence at? You haven’t christened a baby the wrong name have you?” 

Aramis gave a short laugh. “No. Although I shall persist in my endeavours to convince somebody else to saddle their kid with the name Aramis.”

“I feel your pain. Still, it makes one memorable.” 

They shared a smile, and Athos sat back in his chair. “Come on then, so what’s the charge?”

“Well, when I was living here at the Vicarage I was available at all hours of the day and night,” Aramis said. “Obviously since I’ve moved up to the Manor, I’m a bit less – accessible.”

“They can’t object to that, surely?” Athos protested. “You deserve _some_ time to yourself. And you’ve got a mobile?”

“Yes. And most of my parishioners are entirely understanding about the change in my circumstances. Apart from one, it seems.”

“Who did they complain to?” Athos asked. “Not God, presumably.”

“Sadly not. The Bishop.”

“He’ll back you up though, won’t he?”

Aramis looked shifty. “I may have neglected to tell anyone higher up the foodchain I’d be moving out of the Vicarage. I told them I was getting married, of course, but they may have assumed that my new bride would be moving in here with me, as would be more, er, traditional.”

“And you didn’t correct them?”

Aramis sighed. “I’ve been using this place more as an office. It belongs to the Church, not me, it’s not like I was trying to sell it off or anything. But – well, somebody has seen fit to complain.”

“Who?” 

Aramis pushed a sheet of writing paper across the table and nodded. Athos read the letter, looking more astonished as he went on. The complaint was not only about Aramis’ relocation, but also cast aspersions on his surmised relations with his new bride before the death of her previous husband, plus allegations of bed-hopping with other women in the parish.

Athos got to the end and frowned, turning the sheet over in confusion. “It’s not signed?” 

“No,” said Aramis levelly. “It isn’t.”

“Somebody sent it anonymously? How – ” Athos was temporarily at a loss for words. “Spiteful. Do you have any idea who it might be?”

“No. That’s the worst thing about it in some ways,” Aramis admitted. “I’m hardly a stranger to people taking issue with me, but not knowing who it is is horrid.”

“Want me to investigate?”

“It’s not worth your time.”

Athos smiled. “Actually I had someone else in mind.”

–

“Well hello stranger," said Ethel Palmer, opening the door with a smile.

Athos smiled back apologetically. "Hello. Sorry. I should have come before. Somehow - "

"Life gets in the way. I know. Have you got time for a cup of tea?"

Athos accepted, rather wishing he hadn't had a second cup with Aramis as Ethel ushered him into the living room. 

"Look who's come to visit! Finally."

"Hello Athos." Violet looked over the top of her glasses at him, not pausing in her knitting for a second. “Long time no see.”

Athos sat down on the sofa, and when Ethel had brought in the teapot he broached the reason for his visit, feeling a twinge of guilt that even now he had an ulterior motive. “I need your help.”

“You mean you’re not here for the pleasure of our company?” said Ethel with a twinkle.

“That too. You’re both regular churchgoers, aren’t you? You get on with the vicar?”

“Oh yes. He’s a nice young man. Not like the last one. He never said anything, but we could feel him staring disapprovingly at us.”

Athos handed over the letter. “I’d like to know who sent this. It’s an anonymous complaint.”

Ethel read it in silence, looking more and more taken aback. “In my day this would have been called a poison pen letter,” she said finally.

“Mine too, I think,” said Athos. “Would you be able to make some enquiries? Discreetly?”

“What do you think Violet?” Ethel said, passing it over. “Man or woman? The angles make me think man, but it’s not obvious.”

“I’d say a man on balance. This complaint of losing twenty four hour access to Herblay, unlikely a woman would be going out alone to knock on a man’s door in the middle of the night, even if he _was_ a vicar. Well, you might. And another thing. He’s unpleasant.”

“Because the letters slope backwards?”

“No dear, because he sent a nasty letter, keep up.” She handed it back and peered at Athos. “Surely there can’t be that many people given to calling on him in the middle of the night with an objectionable personality? Can’t Herblay narrow it down himself?”

“It seems not.”

“We’ll make enquiries. Discreet of course,” Ethel promised, looking quite happy about the prospect of making a nuisance of herself in the name of a good cause.

“Thank you.”

“How are the house renovations coming along?”

“Very well, thank you. All the structural work is done finally. Now it’s just a case of redecorating really, before we can move back in. We talked about doing it ourselves, but honestly there’s such a lot going on right now I think I’ll get someone in.”

“Violet’s nephew Jamie’s a painter and decorator. We could give you his details if you like?”

“That would be kind, thank you.”

Resisting offers of a further cup of tea Athos was heading home when Sylvie hailed him from across the street.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked, noticing how fidgety he was.

“Desperate for the loo, to be honest,” he admitted, and she cackled. 

“I won’t keep you then. Was just going to say I saw the local news last night. Is everything okay?”

“Not sure, to be honest,” Athos sighed. “We should know more by tonight. Porthos is in a complete state, he’s convinced they’re going to throw the book at him.”

“He did actually say it then? I wondered if it was a fit up.”

“Sadly he did, although obviously it wasn’t a comment meant to be heard by anyone else.” 

“Well, I hope everything goes okay. In any case he wasn’t far wrong, from what I hear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tremayne. Tory bastard. Huge portfolio of property and a while ago put all his rents up so much some people ended up homeless because they couldn’t pay and he had them evicted.”

“So no shortage of motives?”

Sylvie gave him a disapproving look. “Oh yeah, well I’m sure it’s the people who’ve ended up on the street they’ll be looking at first, not his posh property dealing friends.”

“If you think for a minute Porthos wouldn’t run a fair investigation then you don’t know him.”

“Will he be running it though?” Sylvie pointed out. “Did I see you coming out the vicarage earlier? Not praying for divine intervention were you?”

Athos smiled. “It might come to that. No, actually Aramis has problems of his own.” He told her about the anonymous complaint, and she shook her head.

“Frankly I’d’ve said the bigger issue was him keeping a whole house on just as an office when there’s people needing places to live. But I guess that’s the Church for you.”

“You’ll all heart, you know that?” 

She grinned at him. “Sympathy where it’s due. He’s not so badly off.”

“I’ll ask him to pray for you,” Athos teased.

“You fucking dare,” she laughed, then looked immediately guilty as her elderly boss passed them on his way back to work and gave her a stern look.

“Is that any kind of language to be used in public Miss Bodaire?”

“Sorry Mr Langton,” she said contritely, and he transferred his glare to Athos. “I’d imagine you’d have better things to do than keeping my staff from their work as well, but no doubt you’re billing somebody for the time anyway.” He sniffed and walked on, leaving Athos staring after him in surprise.

“Somebody got out of bed the wrong side this morning,” he murmured, then grinned at Sylvie. “I’ve never heard you sound so meek!”

“Yeah, well if he fires me I’m stuffed aren’t I? He’s not so bad really, just old fashioned. Got a thing about me ‘behaving appropriately’ during the hours he’s paying me. Talking of which I’d better get back. And didn’t you need the loo?”

Abruptly reminded of his pressing need, Athos hastily took his leave.

–

Regrouped in the CID room, the team gathered to examine the facts so far. There seemed to be precious few. 

“Who had motive?” Porthos asked. “He was cheating on his wife. Did she know? Who knew where he was that weekend? Or who he was – he was booked in under a false name. Is it an alias he’d used a lot, had he stayed there before?”

“No, we can answer that one,” d’Artagnan volunteered. “Mrs Herblay was positive he’d never stayed there before, under any name.”

“So finding out who knew he was there could give us a lead.”

“Unless it was opportunist,” Marcheaux argued. “Bloke’s a politician, his face is going to be fairly well known, even if he was out of his constituency. Say someone with a grudge recognised him and took the chance to whack him behind the tent?”

“Someone with a grudge just happened to be staying in the same hotel?”

“Coincidences happen.”

“Not on my patch, if they know what’s good for them.”

“We know now he was killed where he was found,” Elodie put in. “That suggests he at least knew his attacker, doesn’t it? To willingly go behind a marquee with them?” 

Porthos nodded. “Also suggests whatever they were up to he didn’t want anyone else seeing, maybe?”

“The mistress then?” Marcheaux suggested. “We still haven’t found out who she is, and they were heard arguing by the receptionst. Open and shut, surely. 

“Or maybe the wife turned up. Or he saw someone else who knew him,” Porthos argued. “We can’t convict someone in their absence until we know more. When did he die? Have we got the results yet?”

“He’d been dead approximately ten hours when he was found. Post mortem report suggests he died between ten pm and midnight. So he was there all night.”

“The mistress didn’t notice he was missing? Assuming for a second that she didn’t kill him?”

“She might’ve already gone,” Elodie said. “Nobody saw her leave.”

Porthos frowned. “We need to find her. Right now she is the most likely suspect,” he conceded. “Have we got _any_ way of tracing her, barring an appeal for her to come forward? Which presumably won’t get very far if she’s guilty and if she’s not it’ll be pointless anyway.”

“We’ve managed to get a picture of her from the cctv camera over reception,” Elodie said. “It’s not great, but it’s a start.”

Porthos tapped the desk as something occurred to him. “How did she leave? Did she come in a separate car? If we can get hold of the license plate, we’ve got her.”

“I’ll find out.” Elodie went to call the Manor and came back shaking her head. “No, they arrived together in Tremayne’s car, which is still there.”

“Right. Canvass the local taxi firms, see if anyone made a pick up from or near the hotel. And find out if anyone bothered to fingerprint the car, it’s a long shot, but if she is the murderous kind she might show up on the books. What else have we got?”

“The time of death works both for and against us,” d’Artagnan said. “At that time the wedding party would still have been in full swing in the marquee, meaning lots of potential witnesses – except chances are nobody’s going to take notice of one strange face amongst others and the music probably would’ve have drowned out any noise from behind the tent.”

“Great. Just great. Nothing from the interviews we’ve done already?”

Elodie shook her head. “Sorry. Nobody seems to have noticed anything unusual. They were mostly pissed by that time of night anyway.”

“Have we got a list of the rest of the guests who weren’t staying overnight?”

“Yeah.” Marcheaux flicked his notebook. “We’re tracking them down and arranging for interviews with all of them. Same for the temporary staff.”

“As far as we can tell the last time anyone noticed them was after dinner in the lounge bar. The barman confirms they had a drink but didn’t stay long, he thought the noise from the wedding party was irritating them. He noticed them because there were only two tables occupied, most of the hotel was given over to the wedding and that was outside. That was about nine PM,” d’Artagnan reported.

“He really had had a shit weekend didn’t he?” Marcheaux snorted. “Looking forward to a nice quiet dirty weekend with the bit of stuff, she’s full of snot, the place is packed with shitfaced wedding guests and then he ends up dead.” He grinned at Porthos. “And you thought you were having a bad day.”

“Thank you for putting it into perspective,” Porthos said dryly. “Have you considered a career in counselling?”

–

Athos was waiting anxiously for him when he arrived home, and followed him into the kitchen, eager for news.

“How did it go? Did they suspend you?”

"No, but they're bringing in someone to take over while they rake through all the muck," Porthos told him. “And I’m temporarily demoted to acting DS pending the outcome of the investigation.”

“Oh Porthos.” Athos gave him a sympathetic wince, but he was relieved it hadn’t been worse. “Still, it’s good that you can at least stay on, make your case.”

“Yeah.” Porthos looked at him unhappily, knowing he had to tell him about the hitch to their wedding plans sooner rather than later and wanting to avoid it for as long as possible. 

“What’s wrong?” Athos coaxed, seeing there was clearly more that Porthos had to say. 

“They’ve cancelled all leave until the case is cleared up. Including mine. Especially mine. Even knowing what it was for.” 

“Ah.” Athos took this in with a measured sigh. “I see.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, it’s not your fault.” Athos saw how wretched Porthos looked and pulled him into a hug. “Come here. It’ll be alright. We’ll put it back a bit, that’s all. Or – I suppose technically the actual ceremony part would only take about half an hour, if you wanted we could probably still manage it, and have all the rest of the fandango later?”

Porthos shook his head miserably. “I wanted to do it properly.” 

“Alright. Look, don’t worry, I’ll sort it. It’s not like half the county was coming, we can easily push it back a bit. Do you have any idea when might be a safe date to aim for?” Porthos just looked helplessly blank and Athos nodded. “Okay, fine, we’ll leave it open.”

“Athos - ”

“Shh. It’s okay. Leave it with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said again, feeling almost worse now that Athos had taken it with such equanimity. He knew perfectly well Athos was never one for over-emotional displays and he certainly hadn’t wanted him to be upset, but now a treacherous part of him was wondering if Athos wasn’t actually bothered at all.

–

The next morning Porthos had his first formal interview with Richelieu, and found himself sitting on the wrong side of his own desk, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. Thus far Richelieu hadn’t actually interfered in the running of the investigation which had come as a relief, but now looking at the thickness of the file in front of him Porthos wondered sickly if that was because he’d spent all day building a report on him instead.

Still, for all he knew half that file could be blank paper, it was the oldest trick in the book. Porthos sat up straighter and gave Richelieu his best impassive stare, determined not to show he was rattled. 

Richelieu finally looked up from his notes and gave Porthos an inquisitive look. 

“You were hospitalised last year, is that correct? You had a substantial period of sick leave.”

“I was injured in the course of performing my duties,” Porthos replied, taken aback by this as an opening gambit. 

“By an unidentified assailant who may well have been your own biological father,” Richlieu pointed out. “That must have come as a considerable shock to you. You received counselling for a time, but stopped attending before the recommended duration, is that correct?”

Porthos nodded uncomfortably. He’d tried, but really hadn’t hit it off with the man and found his questions intrusive and demeaning. 

“Well, can’t say I blame you there,” Richelieu said, making a note on a pad. Porthos felt like he was on uncertain ground. On the face of it Richelieu was inviting him to rubbish the offer, but he knew anything he said would be taken down and used mercilessly against him. 

“Do you feel you came back too soon? Was there too much pressure on you to return to work?”

“No sir. I was quite ready.” 

“No lingering health issues?”

Porthos hesitated. “I suffered from chest problems for a while from what I inhaled. But they gave me breathing exercises, and I’m fine.”

“You’re still doing these?”

“Yes.”

“So you still need them? You’re not in fact ‘fine’?”

“It doesn’t interfere with my ability to do my job. I was signed off as fit to work.”

“Hmm.” Richlieu made another note on his pad and Porthos had to force himself not to crane his neck to look. The man could have been writing his shopping list, it was another old trick and Porthos was determined not to let it worry him.

“This isn’t the first murder connected with that manor house, is it?” Richlieu asked with a sudden change in tack that made Porthos blink. 

“No.”

“The original owner was murdered a couple of years ago?” Richlieu consulted his notes. “And you uncovered this by ordering the exhumation of the deceased husband of the woman who eventually inherited the place?”

“Well, yes, I - ” 

“And a second acquaintance of hers died in mysterious circumstances shortly after she took possession, along with a college student?”

“That was - ”

“And now another death.” Richlieu gave Porthos a look of mild enquiry. “I assume we are interviewing this lady?”

“Anne? She’s not- ”

“I do hope you’re not going to say not a suspect,” Richlieu interrupted smoothly. “Because it has not escaped my attention that she and her husband might be said to be personal friends of yours, and we do not want this case to paddle itself any further up shit creek than it currently is, do you understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, good.” Richlieu shook his head. “Unlucky sort of place really, when you look at it. Amazing anybody wants to stay there. Can’t imagine this is doing their business any good.”

“Actually it’s where I was supposed to be getting married,” Porthos said, still bitter about being made to defer it.

Richelieu raised an eyebrow. “Good Lord. I assume they were giving you a substantial discount?”

Clearly uninterested in the details of Porthos’ nuptials, Richlieu moved on without waiting for an answer but Porthos was struck by the sudden thought that he had no idea if they’d been paying for it at all. 

With Aramis being a close friend of Athos, and all four of them having spent quite a lot of time together, the commercial aspect of a hotel wedding had never occurred to him, but surely there would be all sorts of costs involved. He’d left the organisation entirely to Athos, and now wondered guiltily if there were deposits and things that he’d just lost them. Athos never worried about money particularly, having earned so much when working as a London barrister that he was unlikely to run out in the near future, but Porthos had had so little for so long that while he enjoyed spending it he was also very careful when it came to managing it. He made a mental note to ask Athos that evening, and with some difficulty forced his attention back to Richelieu.

“You’re very young, aren’t you?” he was saying. “To have achieved Inspector. One of the youngest, certainly of those not to have come to us via some sort of graduate programme.”

Porthos went cold again. It was like the man was reading from a sheet of his insecurities. He’d never been to university, had entered the police directly after A-levels. It had certainly never held him back, but he was conscious that most of his peers had gone further in education than he had. And since last summer there’d also been the nagging suspicion that somebody else had had a hand in his promotion to DI. 

“I’d like to hope it was on merit, sir,” he said stiffly, knowing this wasn’t helping either, that he was probably coming across as uncooperative and unlikeable. But he was being threatened with losing the very thing that gave his life substance and meaning, how was he supposed to react? He suspected Athos would have charmed the man, while Marcheaux would have straight out lied. D’Artagnan probably would have walked out. None of these things helped and Porthos hated how much he was second-guessing himself. 

Porthos considered. The one glimmer of a positive reaction he’d seen from the man was when Elodie had been rude to his face. Perhaps being direct was the way to go after all.

“Look, what do you want me to say here, sir?” he asked baldly. “My record speaks for itself, I should hope. I’ve had no previous complaints, and frankly what happened the other day isn’t worth the time and expense being thrown at it.”

“You think so do you? Richelieu enquired silkily. “I suppose you would. You’d like this to go away, all neatly and quietly no doubt. But here we are, and here you are, about to face a board of enquiry, so I suggest you consider your answers to these questions very carefully.”

Porthos stared at him. This was the first he’d heard of another panel. Richelieu evinced surprise. 

“Did Burroughs not mention it? How remiss. Yes, end of the month, your case will be put before a review panel. Formality, obviously. All the decisions are taken beforehand for these things. Hence these interviews.”

Porthos felt sick. End of the month – that was less than two weeks away. Two weeks to justify his existence to a man who already appeared to dislike him. How had things gone so badly wrong so quickly?

–


	3. Chapter 3

Walking through the village having been home for lunch, Athos ran into Ethel coming out of the shop and stopped to greet her.

“Any luck?” he enquired hopefully. 

“With tracking down the author, no, but I have found out there’s been another one,” Ethel said.

“Another what, letter? Who?” Athos asked in surprise.

“The lady that runs the Wiccan Well.”

“What were _you_ doing in the Wiccan Well?” Athos teased. “Wouldn’t have thought it was quite your scene.”

Ethel gave him a placid smile. “Miss Larroque has a very good craft supplies section, I was buying wool for Violet.”

Athos immediately doubled back on himself and went in to see Ninon. He brought the matter up tentatively, but to his relief she laughed and brought the letter out from under the counter for him to read.

“Worse things I could be accused of, don’t you think?” Ninon said steadily as he read it. “It’s almost laughable really. I mean, accusing me of witchcraft is a bit like accusing you of being a lawyer. Hardly an insult.”

“Depends on the tone of voice,” Athos noted. “But I take your point. This has to be a local, but it’s one who presumably doesn’t know about the other thing, if this is what they’re focussing on.”

The other thing being Ninon’s involvement in a short lived high-class escort service that she ran from the flat above the shop. It crossed Athos’ mind that having a list of her ex-clients would theoretically help them eliminate some people from the suspects list, but he tactfully said nothing. 

“Quite.” Ninon took the letter back and studied it. “Whoever wrote this has a very old fashioned idea of what modern witchcraft entails,” she sighed. “And an overly optimistic view of the British climate. I’ve never cavorted naked in the woods in my life, with demons or anything else.” She winked at Athos. “Maybe I’m missing out.”

–

“Look, you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about.”

Aramis watched his wife pacing anxiously around the sitting room of their apartment on the top floor of the hotel and suspected his words of comfort were falling on deaf ears. Anne had received a peremptory summons to a follow up interview at Crossley police station and it seemed to have inexplicably thrown her into confusion.

“I’m not sure those two sentences are necessarily related when it comes to the British justice system,” Anne said gloomily. “A policeman with a grudge can do a lot of damage regardless of the relevant facts.”

“Who’s got a grudge though?” Aramis frowned. Of the CID team the only one he could imagine wilfully distorting the truth was Marcheaux and even he wouldn’t deliberately pursue a false murder charge. Probably.

“Richlieu.” Anne sighed. “I don’t know that he has, I’m just speculating. But the change in tone from their initial questions suggests someone’s stirring the shit.”

Aramis’ frown deepened. “Sorry, you’ve lost me, why - ?”

“He knew Louis,” Anne said with an air of surprise. “Didn’t I say? Louis was into all sorts of high-level networking, he’d talk about Richlieu sometimes. I always got the impression of a certain level of deviousness that poor Louis could only aspire to. Grudge is maybe the wrong word, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was side-eying the way I got married again so quickly.” Anne shuddered. “You say I’ve done nothing wrong, but technically I’ve committed fraud,” she said quietly. “I claimed my son’s inheritance in full knowledge that Louis wasn’t his real father.”

“You deserved that money,” Aramis protested. “If he hadn’t left you with a pile of debts you wouldn’t have had to. And anyway, nobody knows that apart from us,” Aramis pointed out. “Richlieu isn’t psychic. All you have to do is stick to the truth about the weekend, they won’t be interested in anything else.”

“I hope you’re right,” Anne sighed. “I really do.”

–

“Mrs Bourbon! Sorry, Herblay, is it now? How good to see you again, although in such regrettable circumstances.”

Anne shook Richlieu’s outstretched hand, although she wasn’t taken in by the false bonhomie for a second. She was disappointed but not surprised that the interview wasn’t being conducted by Porthos, but equally relieved that the second officer present wasn’t Marcheaux.

“Do you know DS d’Artagnan? But of course you do. You’ll have met before,” Richlieu purred. “During that first unfortunate business at your establishment.”

Anne wondered whether she should admit to having met d’Artagnan more than once socially as well, most recently she and Aramis having had dinner with Athos and Porthos and d’Artagnan and Constance for Porthos’ birthday. There was no reason to volunteer the information, but equally not doing so immediately made her feel like she was hiding something. Maybe that was his intention.

D’Artagnan came to her rescue by interrupting. “If we’re starting the interview should I start the tape sir?” he asked mildly. Richlieu shot him a look then gave a quiet laugh.

“The sergeant suspects me of deviousness,” he said confidingly to Anne making d’Artagnan go red. “But by all means, let’s do this by the book.” 

Anne and d’Artagnan exchanged a look. It felt rather like Richlieu was treating this as a game and toying with both of them, but neither were in a position to complain.

“So, Anne – may I call you Anne? This is the – third? Dead body to be found on your premises? Or is it the fourth? No, the very first was found elsewhere, of course.” 

“Tremayne hardly has anything to do with the other poor souls,” Anne protested.

“Do you know who killed him then? Or why?” Richlieu asked with an air of manufactured surprise.

“Well, no, but – ” 

“Then how can you say for sure?”

“I – don’t see how there could be a connection.”

“There was a connection between the others, was there not?”

Anne blinked. “You think this has something to do with _Grimauld_?” 

“Mr Tremayne dealt in property. Had he ever expressed any interest in purchasing the Manor?”

“No. I told you already I’d never seen him before,” Anne said, blinking at the abrupt switch in direction.

“Ah, but things sometimes come back to us, do they not? When we’ve had an opportunity to reflect?”

“I’d never seen him before the weekend,” Anne said firmly. “I didn’t even know who he was. He booked in as Harold Smith. Nobody had any reason to suppose he was anyone else.”

“Somebody did,” Richlieu pointed out. “You inherited the hotel, is that right?”

“I – yes.”

“Following a series of events that involved somebody else dying?”

Anne shifted uncomfortably. “What are you suggesting?”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting anything. Just stating a fact. Or rather, a series of facts. Death seems to follow you round rather. And you seem to end up benefiting by it more often than not. Possession of the Manor, following the death of the first beneficiary. The money required to complete renovations following the sale of a set of diamonds recovered following the death of a would-be thief. Some might even say your current husband, following the death of the first one. One wonders, Mrs Herblay, what advantages might follow in the wake of the death of Tremayne. Or, perhaps, what threat he might have posed to you.”

Anne struggled to find breath to reply. “Are you accusing me of something, Superintendent?”

Richlieu held her gaze for an uncomfortable length of time, then stroked his short grey beard consideringly. “Just thinking aloud, Mrs Herblay. For now.”

–

“He as good as accused her of the murder,” d’Artagnan related to Porthos afterwards, having been dragged down to the canteen as soon as he emerged from the interview, for a rapid de-brief. “All speculation of course, but when he laid it all out like that, it did look bad.” D’Artagnan hesitated. “How well do you know her, honestly?”

Porthos stared at him, then considered the question. “Not that well, I suppose,” he admitted. “Through Aramis, really, he and Athos are close. But look, this is daft, we _know_ who was responsible for the other murders! Does Richlieu really think she’s in the frame, or is he just fishing?” Or, thought Porthos suddenly, was there something more behind it? An investigation into an unguarded remark was one thing, but if Richlieu was out to prove Porthos had ties to someone suspected of the murder itself, his comments about the victim could be taken in an altogether more sinister light.

“Sir?” 

Porthos looked up, realising he hadn’t heard a word d’Artagnan had just said. “Sorry, what?”

“Are you alright sir?”

“Fine.” Porthos shook his head dismissively, but he was realising it was more important than ever that they got to the bottom of this. “Look, have we found the bloody mistress yet? I don’t wanna sound like Marcheaux but surely she still has to be the most likely suspect?”

“Not yet sir, but Marcheaux and Elodie have gone to interview the wife this afternoon. Might shake something loose.”

“How come she hasn’t been seen before now? She’s the other logical suspect, surely?” 

“She’s been in Spain,” d’Artagnan admitted. “Only just flown back. Suggests she wasn’t overly concerned by the news, but also gives her a pretty rock-solid alibi.”

“Flights can be taken more than once,” Porthos pointed out. “Still, let’s hope she at least tells us something we don’t know.”

–

“Did you know your husband was having an affair?”

Elodie looked sideways at Marcheaux but said nothing. She’d opened the conversation with softly delivered condolences, only for him to follow up with the conversational equivalent of sneaking up behind the grieving widow with a baseball bat. 

Not that Jenny Tremayne looked like she was losing a lot of sleep over the demise of her husband. She was wearing a demurely respectable black dress and jet mourning necklace but her manner was hardly one of crippling grief. Elodie waited with interest to see what the answer would be.

Far from looking scandalised or upset, Jenny was regarding Marcheaux with something like amusement. Elodie wondered briefly how he felt about older women. Jenny was well-preserved, and looked like she knew it.

“I did, yes,” she said calmly, settling her hands in her lap.

Marcheaux blinked. “Did this bother you? No, wait,” he interrupted himself, thinking of a potentially more important question. “Do you know who he was seeing?”

“I’m afraid not detective. I never wanted to know.”

“It didn’t bother you?” Marcheaux reverted to his first question. “Him playing away?”

“Beat him playing at home,” Jenny murmured. “Suited me, to be honest. We lead largely separate lives, other than for official functions and so on. So I’m afraid if you’re looking for a motive I’ll have to disappoint you. I don’t know who he was seeing and I didn’t care, as long as he was discreet about it.”

“What about you?” Elodie asked. “Were you seeing anyone else? Are you?”

Jenny gave her an appraising look. “I am, yes.”

“Must make it easier for you with old Humphrey out the way?” Marcheaux speculated, picking up on Elodie’s thread. “Cleaner than divorce.”

Jenny wagged a finger at him. “If I’d wanted to leave him I could have. Divorce is hardly the stigma it used to be, even for an MP. Truth is it suited us. He needed a respectable wife, and I liked the lifestyle. We’d hardly be the first couple to look elsewhere for sexual fulfilment.”

Marcheaux snorted, and Elodie kicked him on the ankle under the coffee table. “Did Mr Tremayne know about your other partner?” she asked, wondering if there might be a motive there. He might well have been the kind of man to decide what was fine for him would not be tolerated in his wife. Perhaps there had been a confrontation – but Jenny was nodding.

“He did yes. Again, no details were shared, obviously, but – he was aware.”

“Where were you the night he was murdered?” Marcheaux asked.

“In Madrid.”

“Witnesses?”

“One, yes.”

“We’ll need his details.” Marcheaux gave her a crocodile grin, and for the first time she hesitated. “Oh, don’t worry, we can be discreet. But an uncorroborated alibi’s no alibi at all, wouldn’t you agree?”

–

“What do you reckon?” Elodie asked him when they were safely back in the car. 

“I reckon she could have done it, no problem.” Marcheaux sighed. “But I don’t think she did.”

“Unshakeable alibi?”

“Fuck no, wouldn’t trust her bit of stuff not to lie for her. No, I reckon if she’d topped him she’d have made out she was more upset about it.” 

“So…?”

He sighed again and started the car. “Back to square one.”

–

There was a letter lying on the mat when Athos let himself in that night and he carried it into the kitchen, dropping his laptop bag on the table and divesting himself of his coat. It had been delivered by hand, the good quality envelope bearing only his name, in block capitals. 

Curious, he slit it open, but as he read the contents the blood drained from his face and he sank into a chair. The letter was brief but pithy, and he was unsurprised to note, unsigned. Words such as drug-addled and pervert featured heavily, as did disgusting, immoral and junkie. 

Feeling sick, he drew out his phone and compared it to the pictures of the notes sent to Aramis and Ninon. He’d been in little doubt but they were obviously by the same hand.

“At least I’m in good company,” he muttered. It had come like a punch to the gut, unlooked for, unexpected and while he was utterly unready for it. Winded, he sat and stared at the scathing words, wondering who amongst the seemingly friendly villagers was the one who could sit and write such a hateful thing. They were unlikely to have been seen delivering it, he realised, as the house was the only one in the row of three currently occupied.

“What have you got there?”

Athos jumped, not having heard Porthos come in. He instinctively crumpled the note in his hand.

“Nothing.” 

“Secret love letter?” Porthos teased.

“Hardly. Almost exactly the opposite, in fact,” Athos sighed, a little colour finally coming back to his face.

“What do you mean?”

“You know I said Aramis had a nasty letter sent to the Bishop?”

Porthos nodded.

“Looks like this time they decided to cut out the middle man.”

“Athos, what are you on about? What is that?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to read it.”

“Well I do _now_.” Porthos held out his hand and wiggled his fingers until Athos reluctantly handed it over.

Porthos smoothed out the crumpled sheet and read the note, his expression darkening as he did so. “This is - ” words failed him. “Criminal.” 

“Fancy dusting it for fingerprints?”

“I can log it as evidence, if you want to make a formal complaint,” Porthos offered seriously. “Then if we ever find out who sent it…?” 

Athos considered this, then shook his head. “Even if I knew I think I’d be more likely to have a word than have them arrested. Best thing would be to ignore it. But first Aramis and then – well, I’m the third, that I know of. If it’s not stopped there’ll probably be more.”

“Someone’s getting a taste for it,” Porthos agreed. “You’ve no idea who it is? Not even a suspicion?”

“No.” Athos looked thoughtful. “Although it was hand-delivered. Which means it’s someone who knows we’re living here and not next door at the moment.”

“It’s hardly a secret.”

“No, I suppose not” Athos made a face. “It’s not a nice feeling, knowing someone in the village feels like this about me. Everyone’s been so welcoming, right from the start.”

“They may not necessarily believe it,” Porthos said. “It could just be about the power trip. Writing what they judge will hurt the most, regardless of whether it’s what they actually think.”

Athos groaned. “That makes it even harder to narrow it down.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Porthos drew him into a hug. “Don’t let it get to you. It’s just mean-spirited bollocks, nothing more.”

Athos still looked unhappy and Porthos wished they knew who it was so he could go and strangle them. 

“Enough about my problems,” Athos sighed. “How was your day?”

“Long, frustrating and frankly humiliating,” said Porthos with a sigh. “No closer to finding out who did it, and I keep almost walking into my office then remembering Richelieu's in there. I dunno. Maybe I should just resign,” said Porthos defeatedly.

“Don’t you dare! Why would you even consider that?” Athos objected.

“Jump before I’m pushed? Walk out with my head up?”

“It’s not going to come to that,” Athos insisted. “And even if it does, to be honest they’d probably still offer you the opportunity to resign. Better press for everyone, and it makes it less easy for you to sue them for unfair dismissal.”

“Oh well that’s a great comfort.” 

Athos smiled, and reached out for him. “Come here,” he said softly, drawing Porthos into his arms. “It’ll be alright. You’ll see.” 

–

The next morning Athos was about to leave for work when Trixie let herself in to do the weekly clean. This was hardly unusual, except this time she had two glum looking children with her and looked faintly guilty at finding Athos still at home. In truth, they’d spent so long cheering each other up the night before that both Athos and Porthos had overslept. 

“Is everything alright?” Athos took one look at her strained face and realised she’d been crying. 

“Yes of course. Look, I’m really sorry to do this but do you mind if the children come in while I work? I can’t get a baby sitter and they’re on half term.”

“No problem,” Athos said in some surprise, thinking that normally they ran half-feral in the village with their friends.

Trixie disappeared into the kitchen and Athos was left staring at the brother and sister who stared back at him speculatively. Neither of them seemed as upset as their mother which was good, and he wondered whether pumping two children for information she clearly wasn’t willing to share was bad form.

Just then Porthos came downstairs and Amina flung herself at his leg and hugged him. “Porthos!”

“Hello you two,” he laughed, patting her head. “We adopting or what?” he asked Athos. “God, don’t tell me the whole lot of them are here.”

“No, just these two. They came with their mother.”

“Shouldn’t you be out disturbing the peace with your ‘orrible friends?” Porthos enquired. 

“Mum won’t let us out of her sight,” said Samir gloomily. 

“Why, what’ve you done now?”

“Nothing!” he objected hotly. He flicked a look at the door, then said in a lower voice,” She doesn’t think we know but she got a letter that upset her. And now she won’t let us out on our own. I don’t know why. It can’t be like – dangerous or something, Billy ‘n’ Mags ‘n’ Dan’re allowed out still.”

Porthos and Athos exchanged a look, and Athos slipped out of the room. He found Trixie in the kitchen, scrubbing the table like she had a personal vendetta against it.

“Everything alright?” Athos murmured.

“If you could stop spilling red wine on the pine furniture it’d help,” she muttered. Athos cleared his throat. 

“Yes, Sorry. Look, if there’s something bothering you, I - ” 

“There isn’t.”

Athos decided fuck it. “Did you get a poison pen letter?”

Trixie dropped the scourer and looked at him, startled and suspicious. “How the flip did you know that?”

“It’s just – I got one too,” Athos said quietly, hoping not to drop Samir in it. He fetched the letter from the kitchen drawer and let her read it.

“This is disgusting,” Trixie handed it back to him looking sickened. “I thought – I thought it was just me.”

“You’re the fourth, that I know of,” Athos said. “What did yours say?”

She gave him a look. “What do you think? Racist bile, about how I shouldn’t be here, and shouldn’t have married a good English man. I didn’t know there were others,” she said, sinking onto a chair. “I’ve been afraid to let the kids out, in case there was someone out there who hated us enough to hurt them.”

Athos sat too, folding and re-folding the letter. “If it’s any consolation, from the contents of the other letters it seems to be someone who’s been here for a while. And they’ve been safe up to now, right? The kind of person who sends anonymous letters – they’re cowardly. I doubt they’d be a physical threat.”

“I hope you’re right.” Trixie sighed. “Am I being over-protective?”

“Nothing wrong with being concerned for them,” Athos said. “But as long as they were with their friends in a group I don’t think they could come to much harm.”

“Maybe you’re right. I just wish I knew who it was.”

“You and me both,” Athos agreed. “But I’ve got people working on it.”

Walking into the village to work, on impulse Athos took a detour into the estate agents and drew a filthy look from Langton as he beckoned Sylvie outside.

“You’re going to get me fired,” she grumbled, pulling her jacket round her and wishing she’d picked up her coat. “What do you want, it’s perishing out here.”

“You know I told you about the anonymous letter written about Aramis? Well whoever sent it is getting personal.” Athos told her about the one he’d received. “Help me out. There have been four now in the space of a few days. Things are escalating and I need to build a picture of someone. You see everything that goes on round here. Can you think of anyone who would not only know I was currently living next door to my actual house but also about my addiction issues? Someone presumably who hasn’t received a letter themselves,” he added, realising that Aramis, Ninon and Trixie all fell into the first categories. 

“What are you suggesting?” Sylvie’s expression was hard, and Athos looked at her in surprise.

“What?”

“Do you think it’s me? Is that it?” 

“What? No! I’m asking you to help me, not accusing you.”

“I fit all your criteria.”

“So does Porthos come to that, and I hardly suspect him either. Please Sylvie.”

She reluctantly subsided. “Are you saying you’ve had four of them?”

“No, four different people.”

“Who?” Athos hesitated and she frowned at him.”I can’t help if you won’t tell me. You, Aramis, who else?”

“Trixie and Ninon.”

Sylvie’s frown deepened. “Two men, two women. Three white, three straight, three different religions – there’s not much of a pattern, is there?”

“You see my problem.”

“Probably someone older. Churchgoer. Conservative habits.”

“That’s three quarters of the village. I’ve got Ethel canvassing the congregation. But I thought you might be able to think of a different angle.”

A banging on the glass behind them made them both jump. Mr Langton was glaring through the window, tapping his watch meaningfully. Sylvie gave Athos an apologetic smile.

“Gotta go. I’ll have a think.” 

“Speak to you later. Wouldn’t want to keep you from the break-neck pace of the local housing market.”

“Says the man currently nearly an hour late for work himself,” Sylvie snorted. “Maybe somebody should send an anonymous letter to _your_ boss.”

Athos flicked her a v-sign and she ducked back inside, snickering. He walked on, lost in thought. He knew his own boss wasn’t worried about him keeping rigid office hours as long as the work got done, but he hoped the late start didn’t get Porthos further into trouble. 

It prompted an idea that had been niggling at him on and off for some time to rise to the surface and this time he gave it serious consideration. The main source of Porthos’ problems stemmed from the fact Humphrey Traherne’s mother had made a formal complaint about him. What would it take, Athos wondered, to get her to withdraw it?

–

Porthos walked into Crossley police station that morning feeling resentfully like he was having to sneak into his own office. If he’d still been in charge he wouldn’t have worried about being slightly late but right now every little black mark counted against him.

Heading for the stairs he met d’Artagnan coming down, apparently on his way out.

“Get this,” d’Artagnan said in a low voice, “Jane Tranter, the wife of our dear friend Des, is a land agent. Who, it turns out, handled at least two property sales for Tremayne over the last three years.”

Porthos stared. “So she’d have known who he was?”

“Must have done. Meaning presumably they both did.”

“They didn’t say that in their statements did they?”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “No, I checked. Both said they’d never seen him before.”

“Could have made the sale remotely I suppose,” Porthos said dubiously.

“If you were spending hundreds of thousands on a land investment, you’d want to see it in person, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. Yes I would. You going to see her now?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “She’s got an office in Hastings. Figured I’d catch her without her husband. You want to come?”

Porthos rubbed his chin. “Where’s Richlieu?” 

“Interviewing Elodie. He won’t know who’s in and who’s not, if we both go,” d’Artagnan added discreetly. 

Porthos cleared his throat. “Fine. But let’s keep it polite with Mrs Tranter yeah, I don’t want to give Des an excuse to make more unnecessary trouble until we’re sure of the circumstances.” 

–

“Jane Tranter?”

“Can I help you?” The professional smile died on her face as she recognised the two policemen. She flicked a glance across the room at where her colleague was in conversation with a client, and looked back at Porthos and d’Artagnan. “What is it? I’m working.”

“This shouldn’t take long,” Porthos assured her. “We just have some follow up questions. Perhaps there’s somewhere more private we could go? Or you could come with us to the station.”

Jane’s expression went from annoyed to alarmed. “No – no, come into the office,” she stammered.

The office was windowless and felt cramped with three of them in there, but Jane shut the door on the others with a look of relief. “What’s this about? I already told you all I know, which is nothing.”

“That’s not quite true though, is it Mrs Tranter?” said d’Artagnan. “You told us you’d never seen the deceased before. And it turns out you’ve done business with him on more than one occasion.”

Jane’s expression froze, and she glanced back at the door. Porthos wondered if she was worried about being overheard, or thinking about making a break for it. He didn’t think she was their murderer, but that fact she’d lied was interesting and he wanted to know why.

Finally she sagged under the expectant stares of the two men, and sat down on the corner of the desk.

“Fine, so I recognised him. But he was with a woman who clearly wasn’t his wife, so I assumed he wouldn’t thank me for drawing attention to him. I didn’t speak to him, he wasn’t there for the wedding. I only saw him in passing.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” d’Artagnan asked.

“What good would it have done? I didn’t kill him, and I don’t know who did. I just didn’t want to get involved. We had a business relationship, if you could even call it that. I made money out of the man, why would I want him dead?”

“We’re not accusing you of anything Mrs Tranter,” Porthos said carefully. “We’re just trying to build a picture of his last hours.”

“I was stuck in a stinking marquee all evening, I have no idea what he was up to. Why don’t you ask the woman he was with, I imagine she’d have more idea.” 

“Did you recognise her?” d’Artagnan asked hopefully, but Jane shook her head.

“Never seen her before. But I knew it wasn’t Jenny, I’ve seen her with him on the local news.”

“Did your husband also recognise him?” Porthos asked, struck by a thought. “Being a reporter I’m sure he’d know the local MPs by sight. Even if he didn’t, I bet you pointed him out, eh? Politician up to hanky-panky? He’d have been in there for a quote like a dog down a rabbithole, surely?”

“What are you implying?” Jane asked coldly.

Porthos shook his head slowly, staring at her. “Just wondering if there was another reason you failed to mention you knew the man. One a bit closer to home. Des with you all evening was he, or did he go off alone at any point? Round the back of the marquee, say?”

“Sir.” D’Artagnan voiced a note of warning, seeing Porthos teetering on the brink of an unsupported accusation.

“Oh, is that your game?” Jane demanded. “Police fit up reporter as revenge, good headline don’t you think?”

Porthos opened his mouth but before he could say anything d’Artagnan grabbed his sleeve.

“Almost as good as ‘reporter’s wife caught lying to the police and deliberately hampering a murder investigation’.” he said brightly. “I’d think about the fact you lied in your official statement before you say anything unwise Mrs Tranter. Good morning.” 

Porthos let d’Artagnan almost shove him out of the door, and when they were out on the pavement he took a deep breath of the cold sea air.

“Sorry.” He rubbed his face ruefully. “I’m not thinking straight right now. Don’t suppose there is a chance it might’ve been Des?” Porthos added hopefully.

“I’ll double-check the witness statements, but most of the wedding party are vouching for each other, and you can bet Jane will say her husband was with her all night, now if not before,” d’Artagnan sighed.

“Yeah.” Porthos winced, realising he might have made a potential line of enquiry more difficult. “Still, people must have been in and out, to use the loo and stuff.”

“What motive would he have though?” d’Artagnan asked as they walked back to the car. 

“Could’ve been self-defence?” Porthos speculated. “Des recognises Tremayne, tells him he’s going to expose his affair in his shitty little rag, Tremayne goes for him?”

“It’s possible I suppose.” D’Artagnan sighed. “This is the trouble, we don’t have a proper motive at all. Nobody seems to have especially liked the guy, but at the same time nobody seems to have loathed him enough to actually kill him.”

“We’re missing something somewhere. The mistress is key, we have to find her. Even if she didn’t kill him herself, she’ll be able to narrow down time of death from when she left him.” Porthos looked sideways at d’Artagnan. “Do you think Jane’ll tell her husband what I said in there? Not sure my career can survive another headline from him.”

D’Artagnan unlocked the car and gave him a sympathetic shrug. “Look on the bright side, your day can’t get any worse.” 

–


	4. Chapter 4

Athos stood outside the expensive suburban house on the leafy outskirts of Wellchester and took a deep breath. He hadn’t warned Porthos what he was about to do, partly because he wasn’t sure he would succeed but mostly because he knew Porthos would probably forbid him from trying. But while Athos applauded Porthos’ determination to navigate life directly and honestly, he also knew that frequently wasn’t how it worked. And there was no harm in trying to level the playing field a little. 

He rang the bell, and a few moments later the door was opened by a well-dressed woman in her early seventies.

“Mrs Tremayne? I wonder if I might have a word?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Athos de la Fère. I’m a barrister.” Which was technically true and he judged would hold more weight than saying he worked for a small county firm of solicitors. 

“I have representation, thank you.”

“I’m not here in a professional capacity. Full disclosure, I’m the fiancee of Inspector Porthos Du Vallon.”

Mrs Tremayne looked startled at being doorstepped like this. “I don’t think I have anything to say to you.”

“Please? It will only take a minute?”

She studied him warily, and detecting no signs of anger or aggression relented. “Oh very well. You’d better come in.”

He followed her into an elegantly decorated sitting room.

“I suppose you want me to withdraw the complaint,” she said, before Athos could open his mouth. “Well why should I? That man said terrible things about my son. And they’ve left him in charge of the case! It’s a disgrace.”

“If I may offer a slightly different perspective,” Athos said, “his comments weren’t directed at your son. He didn’t know him personally, had barely even heard of him. I’m sure if he had, his reaction would have been very different, but in the heat of the moment he made a stupid throwaway comment based on the general public perception of politicians as a whole, that was never meant to be public.”

“He still shouldn’t have said it.”

“No, he shouldn’t have, and he knows that. And he’s apologised. But do you honestly, genuinely believe it’s worth a dedicated man losing his career over? You were obviously close to your son, you must be aware how stretched our police force is. Porthos is a good officer, and if I can return to your earlier point, you couldn’t have anyone better investigating on your behalf.”

“Standards must be upheld. He should face the consequences of his actions.”

“Actually I don’t believe the enquiry against him will come to anything,” said Athos with a conviction he didn’t feel. “Black _and_ gay? The man’s a walking tickbox, they’re not going to get rid of him in today’s climate. He’s too politically valuable to them. All it does is make you look bad.”

“Me?” Mrs Tremayne looked startled.

“Hardly a good initial footing for your campaign, I would have thought?”

“Sorry – my campaign?”

Athos affected confusion. “Oh – I’m sorry, perhaps I heard wrongly? I’d understood you would be standing in the by-election. For your son’s seat.”

She blinked at him, and he let the idea sink in for a second.

“It’s been a Conservative seat for decades, they’ll surely be keen to retain it. And in the circumstances you’d be a shoo-in.”

“Oh. Well, I – do you think so?”

“Couldn’t be anyone better, I’d have thought. But as I say – not the best of impressions to start off on. Going after the south coast’s only black and openly gay detective inspector.” 

Mrs Tremayne stared at him for a long moment. “I think you’d better leave,” she sad quietly, and Athos’ heart sank. 

Oh well. It had been worth a try. All he could hope for now was that he hadn’t made things worse.

–

Porthos burst into the house that night and tracked Athos down in the kitchen. 

"Athos, what the hell did you do?"

Athos looked up from the table at his strained expression and winced inwardly. “I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate?” he hedged.

“The complaint against me’s been withdrawn.”

“It has?” Athos breathed a silent sigh of relief. His ploy had worked after all. Although Porthos didn’t look especially happy about it. “That’s good isn’t it?”

“And massively unexpected.” Porthos stared at his innocent expression suspiciously. “It’s got your fingerprints all over it. What did you do, Athos?”

Athos cleared his throat. "I went to see his mother. Persuaded her to withdraw the complaint."

"How?" Porthos demanded incredulously.

"I can be very convincing when I want to be," Athos smiled, but Porthos didn't look remotely amused. 

"And if it hadn't worked? Athos you shouldn't have been anywhere near this, you're not working on it in any official capacity, if she chose to make another complaint for harassment you could have buried me!"

"It was a calculated risk. I was sure I could sway her thinking. And I was right."

"A risk you took without asking me!" Porthos shouted. "Don't I get a say? You could have screwed my entire career, and you didn't think I deserved to even know what you were doing?" He looked at Athos' expression and scowled. "No, because you knew damn well I'd've warned you off. You always have to be right, don't you?" 

"I was just trying to help."

"No you weren't, you were trying to control things, as fucking usual. Maybe it's a good thing we're not getting married just yet, eh?" 

With that Porthos slammed out of the house and drove off, still fuming. His foaming anger was mingled with guilt - Athos had, without question, pulled him out of a hole, and to yell at him for doing so seemed unfair - but to have the whole thing done behind his back made him seethe with helpless frustration. He’d intended to go back to work, but halfway to Crossley changed his mind. He needed a drink.

–

When Porthos finally got home again it was gone midnight, but there was a light on in the sitting room and he found Athos still up, curled into a corner of the sofa with an empty glass of his own. He said nothing when Porthos appeared in the doorway, but his expression was one of stark relief.

Porthos sat down heavily next to him, not quite knowing what to say.

"Where've you been?" Athos asked tentatively. 

"For a drink. With d'Artagnan."

"You didn't drive back?" 

"No. Taxi. Left me car in Crossley."

Athos nodded, relieved, both that Porthos had returned in one piece, and that he'd returned at all. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, looking at his empty glass rather than Porthos.

"What for?" Porthos blinked at him, wrongfooted.

"You were right. I shouldn't have done what I did without telling you. I wasn't willing to accept the fact I could have made it worse."

Porthos gave him a crooked smile. "Just as well you're as good as you think you are then, eh?"

"I'm sorry."

Porthos shook his head. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. You were only trying to help." He gave Athos a sideways look, and bit his lip. "I didn't mean it you know. What I said. About not getting married. I was just talking shit."

Athos relaxed a fraction, turning to look at him with an uncertain smile. "Still want me then?"

"Of course I bloody want you." Porthos pulled him into his arms and they held each other tightly. "Still want me?" Porthos checked, and Athos squeezed him tighter.

"I still want you," he confirmed, and Porthos gave a choked laugh of relief. After a moment he sighed, and squeezed Athos’ hand. 

“Thank you."

Athos smiled faintly. "Christ, don't tell me I've managed to do something right?"

"For letting me vent."

It was hardly the first argument they'd had, albeit rather more heartfelt than usual. Porthos losing his temper was always loud and impressive but it generally didn't last long, and Athos had been banking on this being no different - hadn't allowed himself to think this time might be any different. 

"Ah, you're all piss and wind, you."

Porthos grumbled at this, but at the same time tightened his embrace.

"I'm sorry if I'm too much of a control freak," Athos said after a while. "I guess having lived through a period where everything in my life was out of control I tend to need to have a good hold on things. I'm never going to be able to breeze through life as free and easy as you."

"Not been much free and easy about me the last few days," Porthos conceded.

"You're going through a rough time. I'm sorry if I've made it harder in any way."

Porthos shook his head vigorously. "No, you haven't, I'm just being difficult."

"Will it help? Her withdrawing the complaint?" Athos asked. "Or has it gone too far internally?"

"It certainly won't hurt," Porthos said. "They may jump at the chance to make it all quietly go away. Or they might still want to make an example of me. I honestly don't know at this point."

Athos pressed a kiss to his jaw, before resting his head on Porthos' shoulder. "Come to bed?"

Porthos nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, let's go up." 

–

“I give up.” Marcheaux pushed the bundle of reports away from him in irritation and screwed his hands into his hair. “As far as I can see the guy was a grade A twat, but there’s honestly nothing there I can believe is worth killing him over.”

“What if we’re looking in the wrong place?” Porthos mused, as the glimmering of an idea began to dawn. “What if nobody wanted to kill Humphrey Tremayne? What if someone want to kill Harold Smith?”

They stared at him, Marcheaux surreptitiously twirling his finger in a loopy gesture.

“But Harold Smith doesn’t exist,” d’Artagnan said tentatively.

“Harold Smith was his alias. We just assumed it was one he made up on the spur of the moment for his dirty weekend, but what if he’s used it before? You can’t get away with much as an MP, people are always looking. If he wanted to get up to anything off the record it would make sense to have a false name.”

“You might be onto something.” D’Artagnan sat up, catching some of his enthusiasm.

Porthos nodded slowly. “Get onto it. Start with similar hotels, find out if he’s booked into places with the same name before.”

Marcheaux sank deeper into his seat with a groan. “Great. So now we’re looking for a man who doesn’t exist, by the name of Smith. What are we doing for an encore, rooting out Lord Lucan?”

“I’ll settle for Shergar,” Porthos snorted. “Get onto it, sergeant.”

Marcheaux eyed him consideringly. “Right away.” He paused. “Sergeant.” 

There was a sudden frozen silence in the room. None of them had yet directly referred to the fact Porthos had technically been demoted for the duration, and nobody had objected when he’d automatically assumed the lead in directing operations. 

Porthos stared at him and Marcheaux held his gaze steadily, more amused than confrontational but unable to resist stirring the pot a little. 

“If you’ve got any better ideas, I’m sure we’d all be glad to hear them?” Porthos said mildly. 

Marcheaux shook his head with a shrug. Porthos wished he could wipe the smirk off the man’s face, but held his temper. They were in an odd stand-off in a way. At some point Marcheaux would have to give an account of Porthos to Richlieu and he needed his good will. At the same time Marcheaux knew he couldn’t risk too much, as there was always the chance Porthos would be back in charge at any minute.

“Then why don’t we all get on with it?” Porthos suggested. “We do have a murderer to catch.”

The tension in the room palpably eased as everyone went back to their workstations.

Elodie caught Marcheaux’s eye over the desk and frowned at him. “Stirrer,” she whispered. He winked at her and she snorted. “You won’t be laughing when he’s back in charge.”

“If,” he said thoughtfully. “Not when. If.” Marcheaux leaned back in his chair. “Anyway. Coming to the pub tonight?” The team customarily decamped to the nearest bar after work on a Friday, but Elodie had been conspicuous by her absence for the last few weeks.

“I can’t, I’m busy.”

“Hot date?”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s this bloke called then? Why don’t you bring him along? D’Artagnan brings his tart sometimes.”

“You wouldn’t call her that within biting distance,” d’Artagnan pointed out, passing them on the way to the door and Marcheaux conceded the point. 

“I just don’t know that he’d really fit in,” Elodie said awkwardly.

“I’m starting to think he doesn’t exist. We don’t even know his name.”

“He does! Fine, he’s called Martin.”

“Why haven’t we seen him then? Are you ashamed of us?”

“Of course I’m not!”

“You’re ashamed of him then? Is he a minger?” Marcheaux grinned. “He’s a sex dwarf isn’t he?”

“No! He’s an accountant.” 

“I think that might actually be worse.”

Elodie sighed. “Fine, I’ll ask him. I just – don’t know if he’ll want to come.”

–

After work Elodie went back to her flat to change. Martin arrived a few minutes after her, bearing gifts. 

“I’ve bought you a present.”

“For me?” Elodie took the large flat box Martin was holding out. Taking off the lid revealed an expensive boutique dress, and she held it up against her, delighted but surprised. “It’s beautiful!”

“You should try it on.”

“Yes! Um. Look, now you’re here I was going to ask, how would you feel about going for a drink before the meal? My colleagues are dying to meet you.”

Martin looked at her. “Yes, if that’s what you want? Why not.”

“Great!” Elodie kissed him on the cheek, relieved he’d agreed so easily, having shown little enthusiasm for it before. But maybe she’d just never asked directly. “Shall we go then?”

“Aren’t you going to get changed?”

“I am changed?” Elodie frowned, then realised he meant the dress. “Oh, I don’t really have time to try it on now if we’re meeting the others? I can do it later though?”

“You should wear it tonight.”

Elodie did a double take. “To the pub? it’s not really...”

“Not really what? Don’t you like it?”

“No, I love it! It’s just – not the sort of thing I normally wear.”

“You’re off duty. You can wear what you like.”

“Well, yes...”

“I’d love to see you in it.”

Elodie swallowed. She was normally a jeans and sweatshirts kind of person, and could only imagine the amount of ribbing turning up in something that was bordering on evening wear would get her. Still, Martin was right she thought. Maybe she should make an effort for once. He’d agreed to come and meet her work colleagues, and had clearly just spent a lot of money on her, she could hardly make a fuss. 

With a certain amount of reservations, she went to put it on.

–

They were gathered in the Feathers, sans Porthos who’d declined in favour of staying at the office. He was doggedly working through the last of their meagre leads on the various Harold Smiths that had turned up, despite it looking increasingly likely that their enthusiastic theory would turn out to be nothing but a wild goose chase. 

Richlieu had also been invited on the grounds it would look odd if he wasn’t, given they’d been discussing it openly in the office, but to everybody’s relief he’d just snorted derisively and gone home. Possibly, as Marcheaux suggested, to sleep upside down in the rafters. 

“Here’s Elodie.”

Marcheaux looked up as d’Artagnan nudged him, to behold the unprecedented sight of Elodie in a dress and snorted into his beer.

“Fuck me, it’s got legs!”

Elodie just rolled her eyes but Martin gave Marcheaux a cold look. “Is that a suitable way to address a lady?” he asked.

Marcheaux made a show of looking round. “Sorry, didn’t realise one had come in. El, you seen a lady anywhere?”

“Behave,” she muttered, stifling a laugh. 

“Hello, you must be Marvellous Martin. Nice to meet you at last.”

Elodie closed her eyes as Martin regarded Marcheaux with slightly less enthusiasm than something he’d found on his shoe. 

“Why don’t we get some drinks in?” D’Artagnan asked brightly, feeling this wasn’t going quite as well as it might be. “Pint?”

“I think Elodie and I will stick to a nice bottle of wine,” Martin said smoothly. “What’s good here?”

“In here?” Marcheaux asked mockingly. “You’re probably choosing between the Chateau d’Cats Piss or the Ponce Noir.”

“A bottle of the Riesling please,” Martin said to the barman. “And two glasses.”

“I had Riesling once,” Marcheaux announced vaguely. “But I got some antibiotics and it soon cleared up.”

Elodie wondered dismally how fast it was humanly possible to finish a bottle of wine and go.

–

“Why did you have to behave like that?” Elodie scolded him crossly the next morning. It was normally tiresome that a murder enquiry meant working weekends, but frankly this morning she’d been glad to get away. “Now he thinks you’re all animals.”

“In my defence, I always behave like that,” Marcheaux pointed out, and Elodie winced. He was sort of right, it was just when it was only them it seemed funnier. Martin hadn’t been amused.

“He doesn’t want to come again,” she said gloomily. 

“Good. I’ve no burning desire for any more of his company either. You ask me, you’d’ve been better off with the sex dwarf.”

“But that means I can’t come either,” Elodie sighed. 

Marcheaux frowned. “Eh? I’m confused, why the fuck would you need his permission to come to the pub?”

“It’s not like that. I just mean – ” Elodie shook her head. “Forget it.”

“No, but why does – ” 

To Elodie’s relief Marcheaux was interrupted by d’Artagnan marching into the room bursting with news.

“We think we’ve found the mistress.”

“She turn herself in?” Marcheaux asked sceptically. There had been appeals for information on the local and national news, particularly with regards wanting the person euphemistically referred to as ‘his companion on the night’ to come forward, but so far other than the usual cranks there’d been little of use.

“No, a taxi firm in Crossley has a record of picking up a woman from the gates of Owlbrook Manor at half ten that night.”

“Bloodspattered and hysterical?” Porthos asked hopefully.

“Coughing and wheezing,” d’Artagnan reported dourly. “And it gets worse. Having followed up on the address in Hangate they reported dropping her off at, the reason she’s not come forward is because she’s been in hospital.”

“She wasn’t attacked as well?” Porthos asked, taken aback, but d’Artagnan was already shaking his head. 

“The cold seems to have turned into bronchitis with complications, and she was admitted later the same night. Still in there.” 

“Stable?” 

“Yeah, I spoke to the Nurse-in-charge, she’s fit enough for visitors. And, she knows Traherne’s dead,” d’Artagnan added, anticipating the next question. “Coming?”

–

Walking into Crossley District General Hospital, Porthos had to remind himself that he was there on business to force down the involuntary shudder of memory. He’d been an inpatient last year, and come within inches of losing his sight. He’d been facing the potential end of his career then, and to think he was facing it yet again felt like adding insult to injury far too literally. 

“Marion Bartlett?” The woman in the bed looked pale and nervous, but that didn’t mean much. Most people looked nervous when faced with the police, guilty or not. 

“Yes.”

“Detective Inspector - ” Porthos hesitated, belatedly remembering his temporary demotion, then figuring that at least he was with d’Artagnan who was unlikely to make a fuss. “Du Vallon. DS D’Artagnan. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright?”

Respectful but firm. The time she’d been collected by the taxi was within the window for time of death, but his instincts were telling him she wasn’t who they were looking for. Which was annoying, frankly. If he’d been less scrupulous he might have been tempted to make a case against her anyway, but she looked so pale as to be almost translucent and if she’d been worse than this on the night she’d have been unlikely to have been hammering tent pegs into people.

“Can you take us through the night at the hotel?” Porthos asked taking the visitor’s chair and leaving d’Artagnan standing over them with his notebook out. 

Marion looked more nervous than ever, and Porthos guessed what might be causing the hesitation.

“We know you were there with Humphrey Tremayne.” It was technically an informed guess, but the blurry photo from the camera in reception certainly looked like her. “Nobody wants to make trouble for you.” Assuming you didn’t kill him, anyway, Porthos added mentally. 

“I was sick.” Her voice was a laboured whisper. “I just wanted to go to bed, but he made such a fuss about making the most of the weekend. Place was a nightmare anyway, there was a wedding on. Everyone was outside, the bar was deserted. Only one other person in the place. Typically Humphrey started talking business with him.”

“Do you know who it was he was talking to?” d’Artagnan asked eagerly, but to their disappointment she shook her head.

“I’d had enough. We had a huge row,” she volunteered, apparently not imagining this might be taken as motive by the two policemen. “I called a taxi and went home. But I got worse and I couldn’t breathe, and in the end my neighbour called an ambulance for me.” She looked sad. “I didn’t hear he was dead until yesterday. What happened?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

“He was alive when I last saw him, Inspector,” she said quietly. “I left him in the bar. I said I was going to bed, but I packed my things and left. I never saw him again.” She reached for a tissue and Porthos through for a second she was going to cry, but instead she bent over in a wracking coughing fit.

The nurse appeared and ushered them sternly out again, and they went without much protest.

“She didn’t look very upset,” d’Artagnan observed, as Porthos lead them thankfully out again at quite a lick.

“Only person who seems to be upset is his mother,” Porthos said gloomily. “I suppose at least one person mourning your passing means you haven’t totally failed as a person.”

“Not sure mothers count. Do you think she did it?”

“Marion? No,” Porthos sighed. “Be interested to know who he was talking to in the bar though. Do we know who that was?”

“No. Could have another word with the barman though.”

“Do it. With Marion provisionally struck off the list it’s the best lead we’ve got.”

D’Artagnan took out his phone. When he hung up, his expression was mixed. 

“Alright, there’s good news and there’s bad news. I’ve got a description of the other man in the bar that night, but the barman doesn’t know who it was. The _interesting_ news is that Traherne definitely had a conversation with him.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Porthos said cautiously. “If they were the only people in the bar it’s not unreasonable they’d have said hello.”

“It sound more like a fully fledged conversation,” d’Artagnan reported. “And he said the other guy – an elderly gentleman, apparently – approached Traherne.”

Porthos looked up. “Meaning he recognised him?”

“Possibly. The barman was too far away to hear what they were talking about, but he says it seemed amicable.”

“And we don’t know who it was?” Porthos groaned. “He didn’t give a room number or anything?”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I thought of that, but no, he paid cash.”

Porthos looked thoughtful. “So he probably wasn’t staying there. One of the wedding guests, maybe?” He sat up. “Wedding guests!”

“Yes?” 

“There’ll be pictures. Get onto the photographer and find out if they got one of the whole wedding party. Then get matey from the bar to have a look, see if he recognises him.”

Porthos tried not to feel too hopeful. It was just a passing conversation in a bar, it didn’t mean the guy had murdered him. But on the other hand it was a lead on the only other person present who might have known who Traherne really was. It was worth following up. Hell, he thought dismally, it was the only lead they had.

–


	5. Chapter 5

“I think I know who it is!” 

“You do?” Athos had opened the door to find an excited looking Ethel on the step. 

“The anonymous letter writer!” she added impatiently, clearly feeling Athos was being slow on the uptake.

“Come in,” Athos said quickly, and ushered her into the front room where she looked around with interest.

“I’ve not been in here for years. Came in for tea once when Wilfred was living next door, the merry widow who lived here at the time had her eye on him. But he never re-married. Said he liked the peace.”

Athos cast an eye at the tobacco jar on the mantelpiece and smiled. Wilfred still liked occasional company, he suspected. 

“So what have you got? Sorry, would you like tea?” Athos interrupted himself, thinking there were proprieties to be observed, with Ethel’s generation above all others. But she waved the offer away.

“Loopy Langton.”

“Langton? The estate agent?” Athos clarified with some surprise. 

“Look at this.” She held out a letter. It was a valuation on her bungalow, with handwritten notes jotted on the bottom.

“You’re moving?”

“No idiot boy, I wanted a sample of his handwriting.” Ethel gave him a smug look. “I’ve been canvassing the church regulars. Finding reasons to get samples from all of them. I’m ninety percent sure it’s him.”

Athos compared the style to the letters saved on his phone, and nodded slowly. “I’m inclined to agree with you. But do you have any reason to think it might be him, other than the handwriting?” he asked, reluctant to condemn someone purely on that basis. “Why did you call him loopy?”

“He’s not been the same since his wife died last year,” Ethel said. “He went a bit crackers with grief if you ask me, poor sod. He’d certainly have been a contender for one of those knocking the vicar up at all hours.” 

“What happened to her?”

“Oh, old age really,” Ethel said dismissively. “They come up with these fancy syndromes these days to explain everything, but the body can only go on so long. Although that house thing didn’t help, I reckon.”

“What house thing?”

“Her dying wish it was, to move back into her childhood home. You’d have thought old Langton was pretty well fixed to get first dibs when it came up for sale, being in the business as it were. Certainly reckoned he had first refusal on it. Except it got sold out from under him to someone else for more money.” Ethel shook her head sadly. “All the paperwork mysteriously disappeared. Cathy never recovered.”

Athos stared at her, a horrible suspicion building in his mind. “I don’t suppose you know who it was that bought it?”

To his disappointment Ethel shook her head. “I know he tried to buy it off them, offered more than they paid even, although he couldn’t afford it. He said they just laughed at him. Sad business. Doesn’t excuse this sort of behaviour though.” She waved the handwriting sample at Athos indignantly. “I’ve got a good idea to go down there and give him a piece of my mind!” 

“No!” Athos yelped, and she looked at him in surprise. “I mean, er, no, if you don’t mind I’d like to do a bit more digging before we accuse him.”

“Digging for what?” Ethel eyed him curiously. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“And I wouldn’t like to make wild accusations. But I’ll tell you later,” Athos smiled. “If I’m right.”

“Hmmn.” Ethel sniffed and turned to leave. “How’s Jamie getting on by the way?”

“Doing a fabulous job,” Athos assured her. “The place has never looked so good. We should be able to move back in soon.” 

“I’m glad. Always unsettling, being out of your own home.” 

As Athos let her out again he could have sworn that last remark was addressed to someone over his left shoulder, but he was alone in the house. 

Deciding to leave the implications of that aside for the moment, he made a phone call. The estate agency was open on a Saturday morning, which meant there was a good chance he’d catch Sylvie at work. To his relief, she answered straight away.

“Sylvie. The house Langton wanted to buy for his wife. Do you know who bought it out from under him?”

“How the hell’d you hear about that? No, and I know better than to ask. Touchy subject. I do know the broker was Jane Tranter in Hastings? He refused to ever do business with her again. She’d know.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“By this point you owe me several.”

“Who’s counting?”

“Me.” 

Athos laughed. “Send me your accounting. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“For the record a pub lunch doesn’t count.”

“Duly noted. Thanks Sylv.” 

Athos hung up and considered his next move. What he wanted to do was approach Tranter himself. But if he was right, this was veering into the territory of another case entirely and Porthos had already given him one bollocking for overstepping the mark. Could it really hurt though?

–

Porthos was on the phone when d’Artagnan hurried over, a slip of paper clutched in his hand. He waited impatiently for him to finish the conversation, then waved the note at him.

“You were right, the barman ID’d the customer from the wedding photo. Guess who it was?”

“Graham Langton.”

D'Artagnan’s face dropped. “How’d you know that?”

“Let’s just say my fiancee has his moments.” Porthos waggled the phone at him. 

“Should we go and have a word?”

Porthos shook his head. “One conversation does not a murderer make. But if we could establish the motive...there’s someone else we need to speak to first. The fragrant Mrs Tranter. Coming?” He stood up and reached for his coat, and across the room Marcheaux cleared his throat.

“Yes sergeant?”

Marcheaux looked up, affecting surprise. “Hmmn? Oh, nothing. Was just going to let you know I’ve got my interview later. With His Nibs.” He nodded at the firmly closed door of Porthos’ office.

Porthos opened his mouth, then closed it again. Accusing him of petty blackmail was not going to help. He exchanged a look with d’Artagnan, who sighed and sat down again. 

_Thank you_ , Porthos mouthed with an apologetic wince, and beckoned Marcheaux irritably out of the room with him.

–

An hour later they were in Hastings, having established that Jane Tranter was in the office and not at home. 

“Mrs Tranter. A word.”

Jane looked up from the desk as the two policemen walked in, and scowled. “You can have two, and the second one’s ‘off’. This could be construed as harassment, _sergeant_.”

Porthos gave her a nasty smile. “Oh, I think this is one conversation it would be worth your while to have, otherwise I’m taking you in for obstruction. I want you to cast your mind back. A while ago you were about to sell a house to Graham Langton, of Langton and Grant estate agents in Owlbrook. Only you sold it out from under him at the last minute.”

Jane shifted uneasily, looking from Porthos to Marcheaux and back again. “I did nothing wrong. Langton’s deposit hadn’t cleared.”

“He’d signed paperwork. Which he claims subsequently disappeared.”

“Ramblings of an old fool,” Jane protested, but she was fidgeting now and Porthos knew he had her. 

“Who was it?”

“What?”

“Who bought it?”

“I can’t give out client information!”

“Mrs Tranter you’re an estate agent, not a solicitor. And if you don’t, I’m going to find a reason to arrest you.”

“On what grounds!”

“I dunno, I haven’t decided yet. Either way it’s not going to look good for your business when details of what you did get out. Distinct drop in customer trust levels, I’d say.”

“You’re on shaky ground, inspector.”

Porthos didn’t miss the way she’d upgraded his rank again. “Your husband did his damnedest to lose me my job. I really suggest you don’t try me.”

“Look,” Marcheaux put in reasonably. “We just want a name. We don’t even have to say where we got it.” He cut his eyes to Porthos. “This isn’t necessarily on the record. Yet.”

She sighed. “Well. I suppose it can’t hurt him now. It was Tremayne.”

“Humphrey Tremayne?” Porthos clarified for the record and gave a satisfied sigh when she nodded. “Thank you. That’ll be all.” He gave her a disgusted look. “For now.”

Back in the car Porthos was conscious of Marcheaux staring at him, and growled. “What?”

Marcheaux snickered. “Nothing. Just not sure I’ve ever been good cop before.” He started the car. “Owlbrook, I assume?”

“Yeah.” Porthos sighed. “Arresting a doddery old man’s not going to be a good look, is it?”

“Nobody ever said this was a popularity contest,” Marcheaux said cheerfully. “Besides, if we’re right he whacked a guy nearly twice as big as him. Best keep him away from the tent pegs, eh?”

They reached the village slightly faster than they should have done thanks to Marcheaux’s driving, but other than clenching his teeth in the corners Porthos said nothing. He always got a twisting in his gut towards the culmination of a case, and this one mattered more than most. 

They walked into the estate agent office, finding both Sylvie and Langton present but to Porthos’ relief, no customers.

“Mr Langton? Detective Inspector Du Vallon, West Sussex police,” Porthos said formally, despite the fact they were on nodding terms in the village. “Would you come with us please?”

“What’s going on?” Sylvie was on her feet, looking indignant. 

“We need to ask Mr Langton here a few questions.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

Porthos gave her a long suffering look. “Sylvie. Pick your battles. You really don’t want to be on the wrong side of this one.”

“But what are you suggesting he’s done?”

“You were at the wedding that night, weren’t you?” Porthos addressed Langton, who’d stood up but so far said nothing. 

“Yes. Godfather of the groom,” he said with a touch of pride. 

“You weren’t staying there of course, living here in the village. You saw Mr Tremayne at the hotel though. In the bar. The barman confirmed you were in there that night, had come indoors to have a break from the loud music. It must have come as a shock, seeing Tremayne?”

“He didn’t even recognise me,” Langton said, with a quiet sort of indignance. “Can you imagine that?”

Behind him Sylvie let out a startled noise and Marcheaux threw up a hand, forestalling any outburst. He knew the next question was critical.

“Did you kill him Mr Langton?” Porthos asked quietly.

“You don’t have to say anything!” Sylvie interrupted, ignoring Marcheaux’s glare. “They haven’t even cautioned you! Call your solicitor!”

Langton was still looking incuriously at Porthos, and didn’t appear to have heard her. 

“I’m afraid he thoroughly deserved to die,” he said with a quiet dignity. 

Porthos let out a silent breath of relief, both that he’d been right, and that this wasn’t going to be messy.

“It must have made you quite angry? When he didn’t even recognise you?”

“Incandescent. But also somehow very clear about what I had to do. I’d been going to accost him, but when I realised he had no clue of the context he’d previously met me in I introduced myself purely on a professional basis. Said I’d had some property come on that he might be interested in. I told him the Owlbrook Manor almshouses were going to be sold off. He’d tried to buy them a while ago, but they’re under some kind of covenant. I told him it had to be all hush-hush because of it, and the idea of a dirty deal got him more excited than ever. Imagined he’d get them cheap if it was under the table I presume. He agreed to meet me outside like a lamb to the slaughter.”

Langton looked down at his hands as if surprised at what they’d done. “There were all these spare tent pegs lying around, you see. He never even knew what had hit him. I think I must have gone a little mad. I suppose all those years of banging in signboards came back to me. You just have to give it the firmest tap, you see, to break the surface?”

He looked up, as if surprised to find a roomful of people listening to him. “Am I under arrest?”

Porthos nodded heavily. “Mr Graham Langton I’m arresting you for the murder of Humphrey Tremayne. You do not have to say anything, but, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

Langton nodded vaguely, then held out his wrists. Porthos half-smiled. “I don’t think we need to bother with that, sir. This way please.” He gestured to the door and Marcheaux went out ahead to open the car. 

“You’re really going to bang up an old man?” Sylvie asked disgustedly. “If you ask me Tremayne had it coming.” 

“Fortunately for all of us, that’s not the basis of English law,” said Porthos. 

“Well tell Athos he can stick his bloody dinner offer,” she said. “He never told me what he wanted the information for. He used me.” 

Porthos blinked, wondering when Athos had invited her out to dinner. “You might revise your opinion a little when you hear the rest,” he sighed.

“What do you mean? What rest? What else is there?”

“You know that disgusting letter Athos got?” Porthos asked. Sylvie nodded, confused. “He thinks Langton was writing them,” he said tiredly. “Apparently the handwriting matches.” He gave her a hard look. “You never noticed the resemblance?”

Sylvie took a step backwards. “I never saw the actual letter? He just told me what was in it.” 

“Uh huh.”

“You think I’d – ” Sylvie looked horrified. “Oh, shit.” 

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sylvie shook her head, but she was remembering what Athos had said when he was trying to figure it out and realising how much of it made sense. Of course Mr Langton knew where he was currently living, they’d arranged the temporary lease. And there’d been one occasion when Sylvie had been angry with Athos for driving under the influence of tranquillisers and ranted about it in the office. She’d never thought her boss took much notice of what she was saying, but clearly he’d been listening all along, and forming his own opinions. She felt abruptly sick. It was worse, somehow, than the thought he might have murdered someone. Although – he’d murdered someone? 

Sylvie sank back down into her chair and looked around. The office felt, suddenly, very empty. 

–

A week passed. Graham Langton formally confessed to both the murder and to penning the letters, admitting it had been a way to feel in control of something for once, and a way to bite back at those who seemed happy and were, in his mind, less deserving of it. 

Despite this spiteful impulse, once the facts came out none of the recipients were minded to press charges. The only person who thought he should be prosecuted for that as well was Ethel, and as she hadn’t actually received one there wasn’t a lot she could do.

The case wound up, and with it Richelieu's investigation. They came in one morning to find him gone, and no trace he’d ever been there.

“I guess he never was the chatty kind,” Porthos muttered, peering suspiciously into his deserted office as if wondering if it had been booby-trapped.

It wouldn’t be long now until he learned his fate. Solving the murder would count in his favour, assuming Richlieu didn’t claim all the credit, but it didn’t mean he would escape punishment if they were so minded. He’d never been keen on playing the networking game, hated the idea of being seen to suck up to the brass, but it meant he had no allies in positions of power that he could count on to speak up for him. Porthos straightened his shoulders and sat down at his desk. His record would just have to speak for itself.

–

The following few days felt like the longest of Porthos’ life. The final hearing was being held behind closed doors, and Porthos was reduced to waiting on a hard chair in the corridor outside his boss’s office, awaiting the outcome.

He was just looking at his watch for what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon when the doors at the end of the corridor opened to admit Burroughs. 

Porthos got to his feet, stomach churning. The committee had over-run by a good hour, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad one. At least it hadn’t been instant dismissal, there must have been at least someone arguing his case, but that still didn’t mean it was good news.

He could tell nothing from Burroughs’ expression but the man was impassive at the best of times. Burroughs unlocked his office and beckoned Porthos in after him, dumping a sheaf of reports on his desk and reaching for his briefcase.

“Well, it’s your lucky day,” he said gruffly. “You’ve been reinstated with no reprimand on your permanent file.”

“Oh thank God,” Porthos breathed. He felt suddenly dizzy and had to reach for the back of a chair to steady himself. He hadn’t realised exactly how tense he’d been. His nights had been full of formulating endless contingency plans in his head followed by recurring nightmares of being fired. 

“I don’t think God had anything to do with it.” Burroughs looked stern. “You got away with it this time, Du Vallon, but I’d be careful what you say in public in future.” 

“Yes sir. Of course sir.” Porthos swallowed down his irritation at the tone, just relieved to be off the hook.

“You’re lucky,” Burroughs observed, still packing his things away. “There was more than one person on that panel arguing you should be made an example of.”

“I imagine there’s things about me that don’t sit well with everyone,” Porthos said pointedly.

Burroughs fixed him with a look. “Don’t martyr yourself. You were tangentially involved in taking down Superintendent Mathers and let me warn you it’s made you less than popular in some quarters. There were people there today who’d worked with him for years, and liked him. You took down one of your own, and people don’t forget that, regardless of what he might have done.”

“I suppose Richlieu was one of them,” Porthos sighed. To his surprise, Burroughs shook his head. 

“No, he was actually one of those who argued in support of you. He possibly even swung it in your favour.”

Porthos stared at him, surprised. “I didn’t realise I’d made that good an impression.”

“Well he obviously saw something in you.” Burroughs closed his briefcase with a snap. “You want my advice Porthos, keep your head down for a while, eh? Let the dust settle.”

“Yes sir.” 

Porthos walked out feeling rather shell-shocked. He was relieved – ecstatic – to have retained his job and position, but to know it had been that close was a wake-up call. Crossing the car park he saw Richlieu heading for his own car, and gave him a respectful nod.

“Sir. I hear I owe you a vote of thanks.”

Richlieu looked him up and down with a faintly amused smile. “There are remarkably few officers on this force with a respectable level of intelligence. It would have been a shame to lose one.”

“What made you speak up for me sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Firstly, you managed to get the original complaint withdrawn. I don’t know how you managed that and I don’t want to, but you were smart enough to get it done, which I’ll be honest was a level of political nous I hadn’t expected from you. Secondly, you did actually solve the case, which is a rarity believe me when you look at some of our statistics recently. Thirdly, your team. Putting a superior officer under audit is always like turning over a large muddy rock, all the little wriggling creatures beneath squirm out to air their grievances, scenting a chance for advancement like blood in the water.”

“I’d like to think my team have a certain amount of loyalty,” Porthos said, although there was a hesitant note in his voice. “Actually, I have to ask – what did Marcheaux say?”

Richelieu gave him an unnerving grin. “Ah, DS Marcheaux. Yes, he really doesn’t like you much, does he? Although somewhat ironically you might say it was his statement that convinced me you were worth keeping.” 

“Really?” Porthos stared at him, confused.

“I know how police work operates. I know the short cuts, the lapses, the off the record remarks that could see any one of us in front of a panel like that one today. If he’d wanted to bury you I have no doubt he could have. Oh, he spent enough time complaining that you overlook him in favour of DS D’Artagnan, and some of his personal views about you lacked what what might be termed a certain level of political correctness, but at the end of the day he told me nothing terminally damaging. That’s what convinced me, Du Vallon. Being supported by someone who likes you means nothing. Being supported by someone who doesn’t like you? That might just indicate a man worth keeping around.”

“I owe you.”

Richlieu looked at him speculatively. “Yes. Yes. There is also that, isn’t there,” he purred.

With that he got into his car and drove off with a squeal of tyres. 

Feeling like a wrung out rag, Porthos took out his phone to call Athos and give him the good news.

–

It was a jubilant group that gathered at the vicarage that night. Relieved that the Manor had been absolved of any involvement in the case, Aramis and Anne had insisted on hosting, and Athos, Porthos, d’Artagnan and Constance had come together to share a lively celebration dinner in Porthos’ honour. 

Despite the buoyant mood there was a definite sense of a bullet only just dodged, and Athos had barely left Porthos’ side all evening, ready with a reassuring smile and touch every time he saw Porthos’ expression slip a little. He knew how close to the wire it had run, and how devastating Porthos would have found any other outcome. 

Porthos was determined not to dwell on what-might-have-beens, and was putting a cheerful face on his exhaustion. After dinner he sat back in his chair and gave Athos a speculative look.

“ _Somebody_ gave Janice Danvers at South Coast News an exclusive that just happened to expose Jane Tranter’s dodgy dealing and the fact the Tranters both lied to the police. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment.”

Constance snorted. “I read that piece. It makes Langton out to be the victim in all this.”

“In many ways he was,” Athos said softly. 

Porthos stared at him, not for the first time finding Athos’ motives unfathomable. “Some might say a recipient of one of his abhorrent letters collaborating in a sympathetic story was a bit odd,” he said finally.

“People have said worse things about me.”

“You don’t fool me, I saw your face. It really upset you.”

“I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. Besides, Des Tranter tried to get you fired. I pick my battles.” Athos smiled. “If it was me of course, which I don’t believe I’ve admitted to.”

“You’re a naughty boy la Fère.”

“I thought that was why you liked me?” Athos smiled, swirling the wine in his glass. “Anyway, arguably it was Jane’s actions that started the whole chain of events that lead to those letters in the first place. Maybe I was feeling a little spiteful.”

“Justifiably,” said Aramis. “If that’s not a terribly un-Christian view.”

“I think you’re allowed one a month.” Athos reached for the wine bottle, then put it down again when he saw Porthos looking at him. “Anyway, Aramis, how are things with the Bishop? Has there been any actual fall-out from Langton’s letter?”

Aramis shook his head. “Now that the only person to complain about me moving out turns out to be a murderer, I understand it’s rather put things into perspective. I’ve agreed to spend a minimum of one night a week here from now on to maintain it as officially occupied, and no more will be said about it.”

“Thank God for that,” said Athos. “At least everything ended up alright in the end for everybody.” He nudged Porthos. “I told you it would be okay.”

Porthos gave him a look. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re known for your wild optimism.”

Athos just grinned and toasted him with his empty glass, but Porthos sighed. “We’re still not married though, are we? Bollocksed that right up, God knows when we can do it now.”

Anne gave him an apologetic smile. “I’ll let you know as soon as there’s another free weekend, but weirdly all this publicity has meant bookings have never been so high. We’re full for ages.”

Porthos was quick to assure her that of course he hadn’t meant to imply it was the fault of the Manor, but Athos was staring at Aramis with a speculative look in his eye.

“What?” Aramis nudged Athos’ foot with his own. “You’re plotting something, I can tell.”

“You’re a vicar.”

“Bloody hell, am I?”

Athos kicked back, laughing. “You’ve got a whole church at your disposal. Three, in fact.”

“That I’m not allowed to perform gay weddings in,” Aramis reminded him awkwardly, but Athos shook his head.

“I mean, it’s not like your history of telling the Bishop what you’re up to is spotless.”

Aramis stared at him. So did everyone else. 

“It...wouldn’t be legally binding,” Aramis said carefully.

“What are you talking about?” Porthos looked from one to the other, confused. 

“I’m talking about us getting married,” Athos said levelly, still staring at Aramis. “As in, right now.”

“Now?” Porthos stared at him like he’d gone mad. “It’s like – ten o’clock at night.”

“So? Just means no one’ll see. Aramis is right, we’d still have to do the legal bit, but we could do that at a registry office. My point is it would feel binding to _us_.”

“Do you just want two lots of anniversary presents?” d’Artagnan suggested, and Constance slapped him on the leg. 

“I think it’s a fabulous idea,” she said. “We can be your witnesses.” 

“Do you have the rings?” Aramis asked.

Porthos looked briefly panicked, but Athos nodded. “Yes.”

“We do?” Porthos asked in a low tone.

“We do. I can fetch them.” 

“We can’t get married just like this though! We’re not even dressed for it!” Porthos gaped at him and Athos shook his head, laughing. 

“Well nobody’s going to see other than us, so what does it matter? Or were you going to surprise me with a full white wedding dress? What do you say?”

Porthos stared at him for so long that Athos started to wonder if he’d miscalculated. Porthos had had a long and mentally exhausting day, maybe it wasn’t fair to spring something like this on him he thought, with a twinge of guilt.

“Sorry, it was just a mad idea, we don’t have to – ”

“Yes,” Porthos interrupted, and Athos blinked.

“Yes?”

“Yes!” Porthos started laughing. “Yes! Alright! Let’s do it!” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Oi, this was your idea, no backing out now,” Porthos teased, and pulled Athos into a kiss.

–

It was just the six of them. Athos had expected the church to be cold at this time of night, but there was a lingering warmth from the old cast iron radiator system and a sweetly musty smell, like dried flowers.

There were fresh flowers too, white blossom on the altar and pew ends, left over from a christening earlier in the day. While Aramis disappeared into the vestry to change into his surplice, Anne and Constance lit as many candles as they could find. It was partly so they didn’t attract attention by having all the electric lights on, but it also created a warm and intimate circle that disguised the large empty space beyond.

Athos and Porthos stood before Aramis at the altar, solemn-faced but full of suppressed excitement. There was a transgressive thrill to what they were doing, as outwardly conventional as the ceremony might be.

Aramis looked first to the three witnesses sitting together in the front row. "I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now," he said with a smile.

There was the customary exchange of nervously amused glances and shaking of heads and he nodded, turning to the couple before him.

"The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts, therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now."

It was technically unlawfully, Athos thought, knowing that none of this was binding until they got to a registrar. But maybe there were higher authorities. Up in the rafters carved wooden angels looked down on them with silent beneficence, and the whole church felt like it was listening.

As Aramis murmured the words of the service, for once not having to project his voice to the very back, Athos glanced towards their small but supportive congregation.

Beyond the reach of the candlelight the church was dark and empty, but just for a moment Athos got the sense of more candles stretching back into the gloom, tier upon tier, and a whispering as if of an unseen crowd. The enclosing darkness felt warm and comforting rather than spooky, and as Athos looked down the aisle he could have sworn someone else was sitting a few rows back. He blinked and looked again, but there was nobody there. Trick of the light? Or had Wilfred come to pay his respects?

He looked back at Porthos, wondering if he’d seen it too, but Porthos only had eyes for Athos and smiled at him. Athos smiled back, and held his tongue. 

“Will you, Athos Olivier de la Fère, take this man, Porthos Isaac Du Vallon, to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?"

“I will.” 

“Will you, Porthos Isaac du Vallon, take this man, Athos Olivier de la Fère, to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?"

“I will.” Porthos gazed at Athos like he could hardly believe his luck, and then had to desperately try not to laugh when Athos promptly winked at him.

They walked out hand in hand and kissed on the church steps, snapped on Constance’s phone to capture the moment. When they looked at the picture later there was a speckle of light across the frame that might almost have been snow, or petals, or confetti, but was probably just a reflection from the lamp above the door.

“We’ll leave you two newly-weds to it,” d’Artagnan grinned. “You’ll be eager to get home.”

“He’s eager to get home he means,” Constance snorted. “He’s not been able to have a drink yet, as he’s driving.”

“Yeah, remind me again how I lost that one?” D’Artagnan shook Porthos’ hand and was taken by surprise when Porthos pulled him into an impulsive hug.

They waved them off and said goodnight to Anne and Aramis, who were intending to spend the night in the vicarage.

Porthos took Athos’ hand in his, and raised it up under the streetlight to examine his wedding ring.

“Home?”

“Yes. Although – I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Porthos eyed him suspiciously. “What sort of surprise?”

“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?” Athos grinned. “I’m your husband now, you’ll just have to trust me.”

Muttering under his breath Porthos let Athos lead him down the lane, then gave him a curious look as Athos bypassed the gate of the house they were staying in and went into their own, next door.

“Athos?”

Athos unlocked the door and stepped back, inviting Porthos to enter first. “I’d carry you over the threshold, but I’m not sure my back would forgive me.”

Porthos gave him a mock glare, then looked more curiously at him. Athos nodded. “Go ahead, go in. It’s done.”

“Done?” Porthos walked inside, and discovered that rather than dark and cold the house was warm, and there was a light on upstairs.

“Violet’s nephew did me a rush job,” Athos explained. “The decorating’s finished. We can move back in whenever we like.”

“Seriously?” Porthos stared at him, elated. “But – are we staying here tonight then? Is there even a bed?” Their original one had been broken by the falling tree, although if Porthos had occasionally given the anecdote a somewhat more salacious spin that was between him and the Friday crowd in the Feathers.

“Why don’t you go up and take a look?”

Athos followed him upstairs, smiling. There was indeed a new bed, bigger than the old one within the confines of what the small cottage room could accommodate, and fully made up. 

“I nipped in when I came back to pick up the rings, turned the heating on. We don’t have to sleep here tonight if you don’t want to, but I thought it might be nice.”

Porthos drew him into his arms. “Christen the new bed you mean?”

“On our wedding night,” Athos nodded. “Seems fitting, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” Porthos kissed him. “Thank you, for arranging all this. I should have helped.”

Athos snuggled into his warm bulk. “You had other things on your mind,” he pointed out. “Besides, it’s not like I wallpapered the place myself, I got a pretty young man in.”

Porthos smacked him on the behind, laughing. “God, what a month. Thank God it ended up okay.”

“I’d have gone with you you know,” Athos murmured. “Whatever happened. Whatever they made you do.”

Porthos kissed him again slowly, with a lingering appreciation. “I love you. Have I mentioned that lately?”

“I love you too.”

“Shall we go to bed then?” Porthos grinned. “Mr Du Vallon.”

Athos snorted, and smiled back. “I think we should. Mr la Fère.”

–


End file.
